#boxing media corruption

[thesportswarriors]

Boxing Scandals & UFC 316: PED Cover-Ups, O'Malley vs. Merab Breakdown

Boxing Scandals & UFC Showdowns: The Truth You’re Not Hearing Anywhere Else Combat sports fans — buckle up. The DuCross Brothers are back with two hard-hitting segments you don’t want to miss. We’re peeling back the curtain on the chaos behind the scenes in boxing and diving deep into what’s about to explode inside the UFC Octagon. Boxing’s Biggest PED Scandal? Is There a Cover-Up? Oscar De La…

[always---wrong]

You know what, how Apollo acts in the pjo verse which contrasts with his domains and legends actually seems to fit into today's climate if you look at this generation and specifically the arts.

We can't have anything serious anymore. There always has to be jokes or flashy colors. Just sitting down in emotions and letting art (specifically movies/shows) be still for a bit is something that is avoided and even cringed at. It can be seen as childish actually. Like, anything 'sappy' belongs in a children's media. I even see it in everyday life where it's hard to be serious with even those closest to me because it feels either cringey or toooo open.

Apollo is like the god of the arts. Music and poetry. Those mediums Im pretty sure were always taken pretty seriously. Was traditionally supposed to make you think. But now, today's most popular music is frankly not going outside the box, not taking many creative liberties, and they don't say much of anything important. They go by the rules.

No, that kind of art mostly falls on small time creators. This is mostly because of big rich corruptions ofc and it has affected everything. There's no room for something too bland or boring. Today, Art is loud and entertaining but it says nothing. And I think pjos Apollo in the beginning (his mask/persona) fits that perfectly.

He's constantly lying to trick seemingly both him self and most importantly Zeus that he doesn't care about anything. That he has no motives. That he's an idiot. And he's loud and arrogant about it. He plays into an annoying frat boy like persona. Not like a traditional poet or the god of knowledge.

This pjo story almost mirrors our today's society perfectly. The rulers of the land are getting more and more controlling. In response the people, the ARTS, are doing their best to appease the order their under because they are scared. It's only when creators get angry enough, where they have something to fight for, that the arts start to take a turn and become a powerful force. (Like after ToA)

I think it's a neat metaphor.

[neigepomme]

˙ ✩°˖ ✈️ world.execute (us) ; / caleb x reader

synopsis; specially designed weapons X-01 and X-02 breach established program; enter world execution protocol.

🍎 pomme's notes — sorry this is super abstract heh but CALEB! COME HOME TO ME BABY PLEASE! also i quoted bible verses but tweaked them to fit the lads cinematic universe.. i love biblical imagery in the media i consume 🙂‍↕️

⋆ 500 words / god knows what genre ummm let's say angst (..?) to be safe / fem reader / 2nd person

— and of the wing which EVER had taken from X-02, they made X-01 and brought her to X-02.

weapons. it is all that they were.

disposable machinery, circuits, and welded metals deemed unable to exercise primary human functions — possessing a conscience, feeling, and refusing orders.

world.addThing (caleb) ;

X-02 was the first successful weapon after a series of experiments. dubbed 'caleb' by the researchers, he wielded the power of gravity and was the strongest of their arsenal — mechanical wings giving him the appearance of an angel, flawless robotic being, harbinger of an unspoken world ending.

world.addThing (you) ;

from his steel feathers and wires, they made X-01 — caleb's eve. on her own, she was but a standard infantry soldier, if only more resistant to damage and irreplaceable in her resilient quality. however, when coupled with caleb, they made for the ultimate weapon of mass destruction.

an ever growing black hole contained within pandora's box, one which she held the key to — a limitation imposed onto caleb's infinity.

if (you instanceof Sequence){

you.setlimit (caleb.toLimit());

}

when unsupervised by researchers, X-02's standard protocol was a simple one — destroy X-01.

world.execute(you) ;

however, within the lines of codes, caleb's processor encountered a critical error upon attempting to execute the function. similar to how eve was made from adam's rib, X-01 was made from caleb's wing — thus, the function was rendered useless, as it translated to self-destruction,

world.execute(caleb) ;

further down the lines of 1s and 0s, though, an even more critical error manifested itself — within both weapons' codes. they were capable of feeling.

a desire for the other's warmth.

a foreign concept within their program.

in the midst of their self-imposed fall from grace, one brought on by their own faulty parameters, they reach for each other's hands.

caleb's hand clasping X-01's, bringing her to his chest, going against every established program within his system. in his processor, only one command rings loudly — a corrupted line of code? or a virus, maybe? unable to be purged by his safety protocols, caleb's newly found virtual conscience displays only one function to execute.

world.unite(you, caleb) ;

and like the machine he was programmed to be, he abides by this newly established function — one catalyzed by your very being in his vicinity.

joining your lips together, he finds comfort in the unnatural warmth emanating from your composition.

— ILOVEYOU

weapons. designed for each other's annihilation.

in life, in binary or in one's warmth,

and in death, in circuits shutting off or stopped heartbeats,

even if it all fades away — your souls will resonate with one another's.

world.execute(us);

— so EVER banished them from the garden of eden and sent caleb out to destroy the fabric of the universe from which he had been made — his eve by his side to fall with him.

🍎 pomme's notes — i do not code the code lines come from this song by mili called world.execute(me) (also the title of this thing)!! IT'S SOOOO MYTH CALEBMC CODED PLEASE LISTEN TO IT I BEG

[reality-detective]

Election fraud, tampering or whatever you want to call it is happening everywhere. I told you it was going to be a shit show and it's happening already and it's still early voting yet, from corrupt workers, strange ballots, ballot boxes being burned, illegal immigrants voting, voting lines being shut down hours before time and unregistered voters. 👇

Double-check your ballot to ensure Donald Trump’s name is spelled correctly; otherwise, it might be flagged as an error by the voting machines.

The Swamp seems to be using every trick in the book to influence this election, with mainstream media working by their side to cover it all up for them. 🤔

[knight-a3]

Hazbin Masterpost

Heavenbound Masterpost

Vox, the noisy video box

So Vox may not be my favorite character, but he is probably my favorite redesign. I laugh every time I look at him now. He looks like a weird mix of Spongebob, Kraang(TMNT), and Mr. Electric(Sharkboy and Lavagirl). He absolutely hates it.

Notes under the cut

There's too many twinks in this show. So when I was trying to decide which characters I could change, for body diversity, Vox was an obvious one. He needed more bulk so his body could conceivably support the old TV models. Those things could get heavy. The change also had the side effect of making him shorter, which just worked better proportionately.

I liked the idea that Vox could never get rid of his original bulky 50s TV, but also wanted him to be able to upgrade. So I decided his true body is the 50s TV, and he adds an upgraded monitor for a head as technology improves. He's hates that he's stuck as an old fashioned TV, so he hides that under his suit. Since the monitor is just an addition, it can be swapped out easily. It can be damaged and he's technically unharmed. But he can't see through his suit without the monitor, unless he wants to use a security camera and direct himself 3rd person style.

I didn't like that basically everyone has sharp teeth. It reduces the impact for characters like Alastor or Rosie. So I've been having the default be just sharp canines. But with Vox being a TV, there are so many possibilities. I gave Vox "regular" teeth, which helps him look more trustworthy. It fits the corrupt businessman vibe. But the appearance can change with his mood too.

Color TV became available in the 50s, so Vox always had color vision. But I think it'd be funny if, early on, he had a tendency to glitch out by going into black and white vision when he gets worked up. He's mostly grown out of that glitch, but he can't seem to shake the static or TV color bars, and developed new ones as he integrated computer and internet tech into himself as well. Now he gets the Blue Screen of Death, system errors, and city wide power surges.

Messing around with his face is so fun. When he's bored or tired a Voxtech logo will bounce around like the DVD logo, or display a screensaver. His face can get too big for the screen when he's excited, or be small when he's feeling embarrassed. I need to put a troll face on him at some point. It may be an old meme, but man, it feels right.

His left eye turns red when it's hypnotic, to reference those blue and red 3D glasses.

Of the three Vees, he is absolutely the most powerful. Val and Vel are the content creators, but Vox is the platform. The other two, while still powerful in their own right, would never have gotten to the level they're at if it weren't for Vox. He controls the mainstream media.

--TV set--

So we've got some interesting implications with how he functions. He's a TV, but he blue screens like a computer, and he shorts out the power grid. I think it's safe to say he is more than just a TV, he's a multimedia entertainment center. That, and TVs are starting to really blend with computers these days. He's mainstream media.

At some point, I realized that a TV set was a "set" because it wasn't just a single device. A television set was a collection of components, which boils down to a radio hooked up and synchronized to a visual display. I bring this up mostly because I am a sucker for one-sided radiostatic. It's so funny to me. Vox is obsessed.

But I'm going to refrain from too much theorizing about their relationship. Alastor is absolutely not interested in romance. Nor a QPR. He's not even interested in friendship. Alastor is too invested in power dynamics to really consider anyone a friend. Mimzy is probably the closest he has to a friend, and even that has manipulative elements on both sides. But I'm supposed to be talking about Vox!

--Human Vox!--

He is not tall, haha. But his proportions are a bit taller than his demon form. I wanted to go for square glasses, but I didn't see many examples of that in the 50s photos I found. Oh well! My goal was a sleazy business man. He probably had a variety of jobs, but they primarily involved TV. Commercials, PR, interviews, news, game shows, talk shows, screenwriting, etc. Whatever he could do to get more influence. He found himself favoring the business end of things. Making deals and pulling strings. He decided what would go on the air. He's one of those network executive types.

I see lots of people give him heterochromia, but I don't really see a point to that. He hypnotizes people with his left eye, sure, but it's not a different color. It's not disfigured in any way either. Maybe he just had a tendency to wink at people, I dunno.

I think his death involved some sort of severe skull fracture focused around his left eye. Maybe a car accident, maybe he was shot, idk. Maybe seizures were involved. But he was somewhere in his mid 40s to early 50s. I ended up writing 45, but I'm not super committed to that or anything.

For a human name, I see lots of people calling him Vincent and that's sorta grown on me. So I might go with "Vincent Cox".

And because I fell into another research rabbit hole...

--TV evolution--

(below) 50s-60s CRT TV: TV sets were treated as furniture and there could be some very interesting cabinet designs. Color TV was introduced in the 50s, but wasn't quite profitable until the late 60s.

(below) 70s-80s CRT TV: Color TV became more affordable and commonplace.

(below) 90s CRT TV

(below) 2000s CRT to Plasma and LCD TVs: The three display technologies competed, but LCD won out in the end. Plasma and early LCD didn't look substantially different. Plasma was a little bulkier, but was still slimmer than CRT.

2010s and on: LCD improved with LED backlighting. But then OLED removed the need for backlighting entirely, which mixed the benefits of plasma and LCD. (Didn't bother to find a picture example. It's so close to modern at this point)

--Display technology-- (These overviews are very simplified)

CRT(Cathode Ray Tube)--Used through the 1900s to approx 2010. Monochromatic until Color TV developed aroung the 1950s. Worked via vacuum tubes and electron gun that lit up the pixels. They were bulky, heavy, and used a whole lot of power. Widely considered obsolete and no longer made. Video games made while these were in use tend to look better in CRT, since the graphics accounted for the image quality.

Flat screens-

PDP (Plasma Display Panel): Used from early 2000s to approx 2015. Used gas cells that light up pixels when electrically charged. Good image quality and good contrast, but expensive, heavy, and used a lot of power. Considered obsolete and no longer made, despite still having a desirable image quality.

Plasma and LCD competed in the 2000s to early 2010s as CRT popularity waned. LCD eventually won out due to weight and overall cost(including market price and energy efficiency).

LCD (Liquid Crystal Display): Introduced for TV around the same time as Plasma. Works via a liquid crystal layer with a backlight. Slim, decent image quality, energy efficient. Viewing angle matters because image colors are warped at wide angles. Cheaper than plasma. There are two main backlighting types:

--CCFL(Cold Cathode Fluorescent Light): Used fluorescent lighting for the backlight. Image quality was decent, but didn't have good contrast. (the blacks were never truly dark because of the backlight)

--LED(Light Emitting Diode): An LCD that uses LEDs instead of CCFL for the backlighting. Better contrast and efficiency than using CCFL.

OLED(Organic LED): Mixes strengths of plasma and LCD. Self emitting LEDs. No backlight or LCD panel needed, which improves contrast(about as good as plasma was, which is why plasma is basically obsolete now).

--QD-OLED(Quantum Dot- OLED) Adds a layer of Quantum dots to an OLED to improve color gamut. I think. I can't let myself fall too far into this rabbit hole, so I'm not double checking anymore.

((Feb 12, 2025-updated tags)

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two], [chapter three], [chapter four]

oo. You know what your words can mean

The air in the radio station’s office was stagnant, thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee, damp paper, and the faint tang of cheap cleaning spray. The room was cluttered—stacks of forgotten paperwork teetered on desks, old coffee mugs lined the corners, and a dusty fan in the corner rotated half-heartedly.

A cluster of staff milled about near the break room door, chatting idly as they shuffled papers or scrolled on their phones.

Cassie stood apart, her notepad clutched tightly against her chest, a contrast to the chaos around her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

Mr. Crawford sat slouched at his desk, a man whose very posture radiated disinterest. His graying mustache twitched slightly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, the top button of his shirt undone. He smelled faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke, with an undertone of something sharper—perhaps the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the desk in front of him. It was a mess of coffee-stained papers and pens chewed down to the plastic, with no sign of the kind of attention she hoped to command.

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, her voice calm but firm despite the tightness in her chest. She gestured slightly with her notepad as she spoke, “I’ve done the research. This story—about the council’s missing funds—it’s got everything. Corruption , negligence , people suffering because the money meant for community projects vanished into thin air. Listeners would eat it up.”

Crawford didn’t bother glancing at her notes or meeting her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily to the window behind her, as if the striped sunlight cutting through the blinds offered him more intrigue than the words she’d painstakingly prepared.

Cassie sighed, her grip tightening on the notepad as she shifted her weight. She watched him for a moment, taking in the deep-set lines of his face and his air of detached superiority. A pang of doubt gnawed at her resolve, but she quickly shoved it aside.

“It’s not the right fit, love,” he said finally, his words accompanied by the faint wheeze of his breath, “People don’t tune in to your show for all that doom and gloom. They want something lighter. Cheerier . Something that makes them smile while they’re making dinner.”

Cassie’s stomach churned at his words, a familiar mix of frustration and resignation settling over her. Lighter. Cheerier. The phrases clanged in her mind like hollow bells, reminders of how often her ideas had been whittled down to something palatable, something safe.

Her show—once a source of pride—had become a shadow of what she’d envisioned when she first started. She’d imagined herself uncovering stories that mattered: injustices, hidden truths, the kind of reporting that made people sit up and pay attention. Instead, her work had been boxed into a mold. Segments about bake-offs, local fairs, and feel-good community spotlights.

To her credit, she’d done her best to inject some life into it. Her voice carried a natural rhythm, a way of pulling people in even when the content was mundane. If the story was about a garden club’s latest flower show, she’d spin it into a tale of passion and rivalry. If it was a town charity event, she’d find the human angle, weaving a thread of emotion through the narrative.

Her listeners seemed to love her for it, but it wasn’t enough—not for her.

This wasn’t the kind of work that made a difference. It wasn’t the kind of work that could.

“I can make it engaging,” she said, her voice firmer now, her hands gripping the edges of her notes, “It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom. It’s about accountability, about the truth—”

“Drop it,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He rubbed his temple, as though her persistence was giving him a headache, “You stick with what you’re good at—human interest, fluff pieces. Now, for tonight, you’ll cover that story about the charity bake-off. The station promised them a mention.”

The lead weight in her chest grew heavier. Stick with what you’re good at. The words stung, a sharp reminder of how small her ambitions had been made to feel.

Her mouth opened to protest, but she hesitated. This was the game, wasn’t it? Push too far, and she’d get a reputation—difficult, too ambitious, “not a team player.” She let the words die in her throat, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise.

“May I at least drop it with you?” she asked instead, her tone even but tinged with determination. She held out her notes, “Just give it a glance before dropping the idea completely?”

Crawford didn’t even glance at her. He busied himself straightening a stack of papers with a theatrical air of importance.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, though his tone betrayed no real intention, “Leave it on my desk.”

Cassie placed the notepad down carefully, the motion deliberate, almost defiant. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind racing through every frustration she’d swallowed working here. She thought of her show—the one she’d once been so proud of.

It was supposed to be hers, a reflection of her passion for storytelling. Instead, it had been molded into something safe, toothless. Segments on community bake-offs and local fairs. Puff pieces designed to please advertisers and offend no one.

And yet, even in that confined space, she’d tried. She’d poured herself into every script, every broadcast, weaving intrigue where there was none, giving even the dullest stories a pulse. Her audience deserved that much.

But what about her?

Cassie straightened, her eyes meeting Crawford’s impassive expression one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped.

She turned on her heel and left the office, her pulse a mix of anger and resolve.

The studio felt colder than usual, the faint hum of the equipment doing little to fill the oppressive silence. Cassie stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. The gesture felt more like shutting herself in a cage than anything else.

Her seat creaked as she sank into it, the familiar sounds of the studio offering no comfort tonight. The charity bake-off notes were already on her desk, neatly arranged, as though mocking her with their pristine lines.

She picked them up, her hands moving on autopilot. She read through the bullet points about the local bakery donating proceeds, the heartfelt quotes from participants, the token mention of the funds going to a children’s hospital. It was the kind of story that would barely take five minutes to write, but she couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper yet.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the control board in front of her, where the green lights flickered faintly.

This wasn’t why she’d chosen this path. Journalism had always been about chasing the truth, shining a light where others dared not look. But here she was, with her voice reduced to narrating bake-offs and community fairs, as though the world didn’t need accountability or courage—just distraction.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her mind drifted. She thought of the council’s missing funds, the questions no one else dared to ask, the answers that could have made a real difference. That story could have mattered, could have uncovered truths that changed lives.

But instead, she was here.

With a deep breath, Cassie forced her focus back to the present. She adjusted the microphone, the familiar motion grounding her.

Flipping the switch, she spoke into the void, her voice steady despite the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Good evening, Rutshire!” she began, her tone warm and inviting, practiced to perfection, “This is your host, Cassandra Jones, but as you all well know, you can always call me Cassie! Always bringing you the stories that make our little corner of the world shine.”

It wasn’t just words. It was how she said them, the little pauses, the way she adjusted her tempo, making it sound effortless. One time, one lady at the mall had stopped ehr when she recognized the Jones' voice, telling how listen to her voice always made her day.

And, well, her show usually started at 4 PM, so that was something.

“Tonight, I want to tell you about a community coming together for something truly special: the annual charity bake-off . Bakers from all over Rutshire have gathered to compete—and to give back. This year’s proceeds will go to the Rutshire Children’s Hospital, providing resources and care to the kids who need it most.”

Her voice filled the space with an easy warmth, the facts rolling out with a smoothness that made them seem lighter, more immediate. Even in her dissatisfaction, she knew how to shape a story, how to give it weight when needed.

“This isn’t just about the competition,” she continued, a slight shift in her tone adding a layer of sincerity, “but about the kindness and generosity that make Rutshire such a special place to call home.”

Her delivery was careful, but not forced, as though she was telling a friend a story she didn’t mind repeating. She wasn’t changing the facts—she was simply breathing life into them.

And as she knew how to do it, she continued to deliver the news, despite the anger lingering in her chest.

The streetlights flickered as Cassie drove through the quiet, familiar streets of Rutshire. The sound of the tires humming against the asphalt felt almost too loud in the silence that surrounded her. She turned the radio dial absentmindedly, tuning out the stories of community events and local happenings. She’d heard them all before—enough to make her feel like a bystander in her own life, watching the world pass her by through the windshield of her car.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and she glanced at the screen. It was her uncle.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice greeted her warmly through the speaker. She smiled instantly, the sound of his voice always bringing a momentary relief, even if it couldn’t erase the tension curling in her chest.

“Hey, old man,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything else.

“You were great tonight, Cass,” Freddie said, his enthusiasm practically spilling through the phone, “I swear, you made that bake-off sound like the bloody Oscars.”

Cassie glanced at the radio, hearing her colleague's voice spill into the car. The words blurred together in a familiar, comforting hum, but something inside her had already tuned out. She wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or just the monotony of it all, but she felt herself disconnecting from it all, like she was hearing it from a distance.

She responded quietly, “Thanks, Uncle Freddie,” her tone calm, but there was a touch of distance she couldn’t quite mask.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She could almost picture Freddie’s face, that half-grin of his, layered with the usual care he always tried to hide.

“I mean it, Cass. You’ve got something they don’t understand. The way you tell a story—you give it life! It’s like… You make people see the world differently.”

Cassie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. Freddie was right—she had always known how to make the smallest detail come alive, to make people care. It had been her strength, her passion, the reason she’d chosen journalism.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

The bake-off story—it was just noise. Safe. Easy. The same thing every year.

Cheerier.

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quickly than she intended.

“No, I mean it,” Freddie’s voice was insistent, a little softer now, “I just wish they’d give you more of a chance. You’ve got a lot more to say than just… Fluff pieces, you know? You deserve the stories that matter. You deserve to be out there, really making a difference.”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her eyes momentarily caught by the reflection of her car in the store window. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face.

“I know,” she said quietly, though the words felt like a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, to herself, or to the version of her who had walked into this career full of hope. The one who still believed in making an impact. That person felt like a stranger now.

“You’ve got a future ahead of you, Cass. You’ve always been someone who stands out,” She could lsiten to his smile as he said that, it made her smile a little more too, “Don’t let them box you in. You’ve got the kind of talent that can really change things. Don’t forget that.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands pressing against the wheel a little harder. She could feel the familiar stirrings of something—determination, maybe, or something like it. She wanted to be the person Freddie thought she was.

She wanted to be more than this.

“Thanks,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them, “I’ll figure it out.”

Another long pause on the other end, and then Freddie’s easy chuckle broke the silence.

“I know you will. You always do, just don't blow anything up.”

Cassie chuckled, “Yeah, I'll try. Talk to you tomorrow, Uncle.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

She hung up the phone, feeling the absence of his words linger in the air for a moment longer than she expected. The road ahead seemed endless, but for a fleeting second, she couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie was right. She had more to say. Maybe she always had.

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

The radio continued to chatter in the background, her colleague’s voice now a steady hum as Cassie kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure how to get from here to where she wanted to be, but as the glow of Rutshire faded into the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to stop trying to figure it out. Not yet.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday morning, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glassware being set down and the low murmur of the few early risers. It wasn’t the busiest time, but it never really was. The regulars were there, still half-closed in the warm haze of sleep, some nursing their first coffee of the day, others leaning over papers or whispering in low tones, trading stories or reflecting on the night before.

The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot as Cassie made her way to the bar, the familiar sound echoing through the empty space. The air smelled faintly of old beer, with a hint of stale cigarettes lingering in the corners, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was a blend that, for her, felt as comfortable as her own breath.

The radio filling the background quietly.

She slid onto a barstool with practiced ease, her body instinctively relaxing into the worn leather of the seat.

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, Bas moved with a rhythm born of years spent here, every motion fluid, like he was a part of the place itself.

She didn’t need to ask for her drink. Bas, like always, seemed to know exactly what she needed.

He set a pint of something dark in front of her, the foam just right, and it took her a second to realize how much she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t say anything, not at first. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, the bitterness of the beer almost too fitting, like it was somehow tied to the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

She let it settle in her chest for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, but it was more to avoid looking at Bas than anything else.

He had that way of making her feel seen, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“How’s the radio business these days, darling?” Bas’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. They both knew she’d been struggling with it lately, but it was easier not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

Cassie shrugged, swirling the beer in her glass, her fingers brushing the cold surface as she considered how to answer. Her mind was a mess, but she wasn’t about to unload it all here, not when it felt like everyone else in this room had their own things to ignore.

“Same as always,” she said, her voice flat, “Same stories. Same people. No one cares about the real stuff. It's all fluff .”

Bas didn’t respond right away, just watched her, like he could tell there was more beneath that statement. She could feel him studying her, but she refused to meet his eyes.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it—not yet. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

“People like fluff,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “It’s easy. It doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”

Cassie didn’t say anything at first, letting his words sit aside as she took a breath. The frustration inside her bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.

She didn’t need another lecture today. She didn’t need him to tell her how hard it was for everyone, or how nothing ever really changes.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze, “People don’t want to hear the truth. They want the easy stuff. And I’m tired of giving it to them.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation, “But I’m not gonna sit around hoping that one day someone decides I’m good enough for the stories that actually matter.”

Bas tilted his head, studying her again. He wasn’t trying to offer solutions. That wasn’t his style.

He let her say what she needed to say, and gave her space to feel frustrated. That's why he was a damn good bar owner.

“Maybe they’re just not ready for it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he wasn’t talking about her job anymore.

Cassie let out a short, bitter laugh, “And maybe I’m not waiting for them. I’m done with that.”

She tasted her words as they left her mouth, bitter . The truth was, she didn’t know what she was waiting for anymore.

Maybe she just wanted a break. Maybe she was tired of always trying to make people listen. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Bas.

He leaned back, watching her carefully, his face unreadable.

“Alright. So what’s your plan?” His hand moved almost absentmindedly to the radio dial, turning it until a voice crackled through the static.

The sound was unmistakable—a voice she recognized instantly. One of her colleagues, mid-monologue, delivering the day’s take on whatever sensational headline they’d latched onto. It was faint, almost drowned by the static, but the cadence was familiar: deliberate pauses, calculated inflection, designed to hook listeners and keep them invested.

Cassie felt the prickle of discomfort at hearing it, even slightly. The words blurred together, more noise than substance, but the undertone of it all—performance, rather than authenticity—was clear to her. She tried not to let it distract her, but it was there, a quiet reminder of everything she’d been wrestling with.

She looked down at her drink, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful circles.

The question hung heavy between them. What was her plan?

Did she even have one? Cassie didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep doing this—circling around her own indecision, feeling like she had to apologize for wanting more.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted finally, the words coming out quieter than she’d intended, “But I’m not just gonna keep... Doing this. I can’t.”

Bas didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her have the silence. The low hum of conversation from the other side of the bar, the clink of glasses, all of it felt like a world away. Cassie’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mind racing, but somehow, she felt just a little bit lighter now that it was out in the open. Maybe it didn’t solve anything, but at least she could stop pretending.

She glanced back at her friend, meeting the pity she knew she would face. The way his lips turned up and his brows furrowed.

She hated it.

“I mean—Sometimes, I think it’s all pointless,” her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like she was talking to herself, “We keep doing the same thing over and over, pushing the same stories, and nothing really changes. It's like no one even wants to hear anything different.”

She paused, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. “What if we gave them something that actually mattered? Would they even acknowledge it?”

Bas didn't respond immediately, his focus on wiping down a glass. His hands moved methodically, as though the task required more attention than it really did. Cassie could tell he was listening, though—she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to hold still for just a beat longer.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving the glass as he set it down with a faint clink.

“Does it matter?” he asked, thoughtful, “You give them what they want, or you give them what you think they need. But in the end, they’ll either care, or they won’t. Can’t control that.”

“It does matter!” she answered, her voice firming with resolve, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “It’s about giving them something that goes deeper than just the surface. No more chasing headlines. No more easy, shallow stories. I’m talking about something real. Real pain. Real stories. Something they can actually connect with—something that doesn’t sound or look fake.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

“You mean like… Venturer ?” His tone was playful, but the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

He had always known that Cassie had a sharp mind, a hunger for real stories—the same hunger that Freddie, Rupert, and Declan had been searching for almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer .

She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.

A little thing in the shell , as Bas himself used to say, back when she had first come to Rutshire. She’d always been the one who stayed in the background, content to watch rather than dive into the drama.

I don't want my face in the screens , she had told him once when her uncle first brought up the possibility of her joining the team. It was a simple, firm declaration. She’d never wanted that kind of attention.

But Venturer was different. It was a project created by her uncle and his well-known friends. She’d never spoken to them directly about it, except when her uncle and Bas mentioned it.

She had been watching from afar, keeping an eye on their ideas as they slowly began to take shape and go live on TV.

“I watch it sometimes when I get the time,” she said, her tone measured, almost as if she were brushing off the question. But there was something in her voice, a subtle shift, that didn’t go unnoticed.

Bas paused, his smirk softening just a touch. The playful teasing faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his eyes. He leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“You don’t just ‘watch it,’” Bas said, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re paying attention. Venturer might not be your thing, but you’re still watching.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze but refusing to back down.

“It’s hard not to notice something that’s everywhere,” she replied, though her words were lighter now. “But I’m not exactly in the business of playing their game. It’s not my scene.”

Bas raised an eyebrow. He didn’t press her further but lingered on the point, his curiosity deepening. He knew her well enough to see that there was more beneath the surface—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Bas chuckled softly, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, “Now I’m curious, what do you think? You think we’re actually doing something worth watching?”

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, her mind wandering back to her uncle’s involvement in the project, the high-profile connections he had cultivated, and the way the whole thing had grown into something she hadn’t expected, “I mean, yeah. I think there’s potential. It’s raw, unfiltered... Something real.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

“And you’re just gonna keep watching from the sidelines? Not gonna get involved yourself?”

The question rang in the air, a challenge, but Cassie wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. Instead, she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become.

Yet, she narrowed her eyes at him, getting a glimpse of his smirk... Now it made sense why he had mentioned Venturer for starters

“I already have a job, Bas.”

“A shit one,” he pointed out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar. His voice was calm, but the words hit with precision, “Your colleagues don’t appreciate your talent. I’ve seen the way they sideline your ideas, and I’ve heard the segments they let you do. It’s filler, Cass. They don’t take you seriously, and they never will.”

Bas leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the bar. The faint overhead light caught the edges of his smirk, giving him an almost mischievous air. He let his words linger between them, studying her reaction.

Cassie tilted her head, her brow arching slightly. She wasn’t about to let him needle her without a fight.

“And would you?” she asked sharply, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them, “TV is more misogynistic than radio, and we both know that.”

Bas didn’t flinch. He always enjoyed a challenge , Cassie remembered.

“Sure, it is,” he admitted, “But at least there’s a chance to be heard. Right now, you’re stuck spinning your wheels while everyone around you is taking credit for your work.”

The voice of her colleague on the radio grew clearer, the words breaking through the haze of static. Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t fully register it yet.

“And you think TV’s the answer? Let’s not pretend it’s any different. Bigger platforms, bigger egos—it’s the same game, Bas… A worse game.”

“Maybe,” he said simply, shrugging, “But if you’re gonna fight the fight, why not fight it somewhere familiar?”

The radio crackled again, the voice cutting through more clearly now.

“... An in-depth investigation into the council’s misallocation of funds...”

Cassie’s fingers froze on the glass, her breath catching in her throat. The words were faint, still mingled with static, but they pierced through her thoughts like a sharp knife.

Her eyes snapped to the radio, her pulse quickening. Bas followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly.

It couldn't be, could it? Cassie’s mind drifted back to days ago, what she had written in her notes as she listened to her colleague—Dan’s words. Each one of them felt like a stone sinking into her chest, heavy and unavoidable.

The bar suddenly felt too small. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the jukebox seemed muffled, distant, as if the world outside the static of the radio had faded to nothing.

Cassie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the frustration swelling in her chest.  

The air around her, once familiar and warm, now felt stifling. She looked down at her glass, still in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly as her grip tightened. The sharp scent of beer mixed with the faint aroma of fried food coming from the kitchen, but it was all background noise to her racing thoughts.  

Bas’s voice came through the haze, low and careful.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”  

Her eyes snapped to him, wide and searching. The concern etched on his face barely registered. Instead, she pointed toward the radio, her voice tight.

“Turn. That. Up .”  

Bas hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obliged, twisting the knob until the words filled the air.  

“... Our findings reveal years of systemic negligence, with ties between high-ranking officials and private contractors raising serious questions...”  

It was all there. Her angles, her research, her work . Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, though it felt like dragging air through a straw.

Her grip on the glass loosened, and she set it down carefully on the bar, the slight clunk louder than it should have been. She straightened, her mind a storm of disbelief and simmering rage.

Her surroundings came back into focus, but only just—the stained wood of the bar beneath her hands, the creak of an old stool shifting as someone moved nearby, the flicker of a neon beer sign casting a faint red glow over the wall.  

“That’s my story,” she said, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she had spoken.  

Bas frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of her reaction, “What are you talking about?”  

“That’s my bloody story,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time, but trembling slightly at the edges, “The council, the mismanagement, the contractors—it’s all mine. I pitched it yesterday. Crawford told me it wasn’t ‘cheerier” to air.”  

The weight of it hit her fully now. She leaned on the bar for support, her hands pressing into the smooth surface as her mind raced.

How did this happen? How had her work ended up on the air, delivered by someone else?

Bas leaned forward, his expression darkening, “You’re sure? I mean... Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” she snapped, “It’s not a coincidence, Bas. I know my work. I know every word of it.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Cassie shook her head, trying to clear the haze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though the betrayal wasn’t just professional but personal.

Cassie straightened, her jaw tightening as fury replaced the shock. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion, the strap digging into her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

Bas stood up straighter, his hands resting on the bar.

“Cass, hold on. What are you going to do?”

She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the chair she’d just abandoned.

“I’m going to the station. He doesn’t get to do this.”

“Cass, think about this—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice steely, “I’m done thinking, Bas. It’s my story, my work, and I’m not letting it slide.”

The bar’s warm light felt glaring as she strode toward the exit, each step sharp and purposeful. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, grounding her just enough to keep moving.

Bas watched her go, her sharp movements cutting through the warm haze of the bar like a blade. For a second, he considered following her, but the determination in her stride stopped him.

Instead, Bas turned toward the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar. The old rotary clattered as he picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease to dial the number.

He waited, glancing toward the door she had just stormed through, her words still ringing in his ears.

The line clicked after a few rings.  

“Freddie,” Bas said quickly, his voice lower than usual, tinged with urgency, “It’s me.”  

“Bas?” Freddie’s voice came through, “What’s going on?”  

Bas leaned against the counter, one hand running through his hair as he glanced toward the door again.

“It’s Cass,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, “I think you better head to Crawford's radio station right now.”

A longer pause this time, Bas guessed he had probably awoken the man, “What do you mean?”  

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

“She will probably throw a bomb and explode the place, Freddie. They had stolen her story.”

The pale morning light filtered through the windows of the station's parking lot, casting long shadows against the asphalt. Cassie pulled her car to a sharp stop, the tires crunching on loose gravel. Her pulse raced as she stepped out, the crisp morning air biting at her skin. Everything about the scene felt surreal, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the storm building within her.  

The station was already buzzing with its usual morning energy. The faint hum of muffled voices and clattering keyboards carried through the slightly ajar front door. Cassie pushed it open, her steps firm and unrelenting as she entered. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the cluttered interior—a mess of half-empty coffee cups, stray papers, and tangled wires.  

Her boots clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she passed the break room. A few of her colleagues turned to glance at her, their expressions ranging from vague curiosity to mild discomfort. They must have sensed her fury, the way her jaw was set and her eyes burned with a fire they hadn’t seen before.  

Dan’s voice drifted faintly from the studio down the hall, calm and self-assured as always. But to Cassie, it sounded smug, taunting, every syllable dripping with betrayal.  

She reached the studio door just as the ON AIR sign flickered off, signaling a break. Her heart pounded as she pushed the door open, stepping inside to find Dan, Crawford, and a sound technician huddled together.

Crawford leaned lazily against the control panel, his disinterest palpable, while Dan adjusted his tie, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t our rising star,” Dan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “Come to bask in the glory of our latest hit segment?”  

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“That segment,” she said evenly, though her voice trembled with barely-contained anger, “Was my pitch. My research. My story.”  

Crawford sighed, rubbing his temple as though this confrontation was an inconvenience rather than a betrayal.

“Look, Cassie,” he began, his tone patronizing, “it’s not about ownership here. It’s about the station putting out the best possible content. Dan’s delivery works for the audience. He knows how to connect—”  

“He knows how to steal, you both do!” Cassie snapped, cutting him off, “You told me my story wasn’t good enough to air, and now suddenly it’s headline material because he’s the one presenting it?”

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, come on, Cassie. It’s not like you were going to do anything with it. Consider it a team effort.”  

Her vision blurred with rage. Every patronizing word felt like a slap, each excuse twisting the knife deeper.

“You don’t get to take credit for my work,” she said, her voice rising.  

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

“Lower your voice,” he barked, glancing toward the technician, “We’re going back on air in two minutes.”  

That was all the time Cassie needed.  

Before he could finish, Cassie moved. Her body acted before her mind could second-guess. She shoved Dan’s chair aside, ignoring his startled yelp as he stumbled. Sliding into his place, she locked the door with a sharp twist and adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“Cassie!” Crawford bellowed, pounding on the glass partition, “What the hell are you doing?”

She ignored him, her fingers flying over the console to flip the switch. The red ON AIR light blinked on.

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

One of them shook his head, panicked, “We can’t. She’s got full control of the board.”

There were two or three good things on being Freddie Jones’ niece.

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

“Good morning, Rutshire. This is Cassandra Jones, and I’ve got a story to tell you. But it’s not the one you just heard. No, this one is about the station you’re listening to right now—the lies it tells, the stories it hides, and the people it silences.”

Crawford was livid, his fists pounding against the door as he barked orders at the technicians.

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sir, we’d have to shut down the whole station.”

“And lose every listener we’ve just gained?” another technician added, pointing to the monitors that displayed the surging audience numbers.

Crawford froze, his fury replaced by a flicker of fear.

The air in the O’Hara kitchen carried the sweet warmth of butter and vanilla, the scent clinging to every corner like a comforting memory. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the marble countertops and glinting off Taggie’s delicate array of mixing bowls and utensils. She worked with precision, her hands deftly folding batter as she tested a new recipe.

The rhythmic scrape of her spatula against the bowl mingled with the faint hum of the radio in the background.

Rupert sat at the breakfast table, a picture of calculated ease, the newspaper spread before him like a shield. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes darted across the columns, though his attention seemed to wander.

Declan leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, his stance casual but his gaze sharp, fixed on nothing in particular. The radio had been little more than background noise—a familiar companion to their morning routine.

But now, the sharp edge in the voice crackling through the speakers commanded Taggie's attention.

She paused, her hand hovering over the mixing bowl, her brow furrowing as she caught a particularly biting phrase.

“Turn that up,” she said abruptly, setting down her spatula.

Rupert raised an eyebrow but complied, folding his newspaper neatly and nodding toward Declan. With an easy motion, Declan leaned over and turned the dial, the static fading to bring Cassie’s voice into sharper focus.

“...And then, they gave it to someone else,” she was saying, her tone laced with indignation and barely restrained anger, “They handed my work, my research, my hours of effort to someone who didn’t earn it. All because they thought it would sell better with his name on it, it would be more profitable if it was told by a a man.”

The room fell still, the normally comforting buzz of kitchen activity replaced by the biting truth in her words. Taggie wiped her hands on her apron, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened intently. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. Declan remained by the counter, his focus sharp on it, his notes forgotten as his journalist instincts stirred to life.

The words coming from the radio didn’t just cut through the air; they lingered, deliberate, each one a carefully aimed arrow.

“Last year, we buried a story about toxic waste being dumped into local waterways—because the company responsible was a top-tier advertiser. Families got sick, kids missed school, and what did this station do? Nothing . Because money speaks louder than people’s lives here.”

Taggie paused mid-motion, her hands hanging limp as Cassie’s voice seeped into the room. She exchanged a glance with Rupert, who had set his paper down entirely now, his features tight with unspoken thoughts.

“This station silences voices,” Cassie continued, the edge in her tone palpable, “It buries stories that challenge you, stories that could make a difference. It’s not about the truth here. It’s about control—about keeping power in the hands of those who already have it.”

Rupert sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his posture tense as though her words had struck a personal chord.

“She’s playing with fire,” he muttered, his tone cautious but far from dismissive, “Crawford’s the type to hold a grudge, and he won’t forgive this. He’s too protective of his image.”

“She’s brave,” Taggie countered, her voice steady and soft, though there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She held Rupert’s gaze, her expression calm but resolute, as though daring him to dismiss her opinion, “It’s reckless, yes, but sometimes that’s what people need to hear.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t agree—not entirely, anyway—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, the kitchen momentarily quieter as though everyone was considering them.

If not everyone, him . His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, his smirk fading into something softer.

Declan, leaning against the counter, remained silent, his brow furrowed slightly as his focus stayed fixed on the radio. The steam from his untouched coffee curled lazily upward, but he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, still tethered to the sharpness of Cassie’s voice.

“Who is she?” he asked after a beat, his tone clipped but carrying a subtle curiosity that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Cassandra Jones,” Taggie replied, her voice quiet but sure, “Freddie’s niece. She’s been here for a few months now—moved from Chicago.”

“Oh, Bas told me about her,” Rupert chimed in, the smirk returning as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “Thought she’d be too meek for a place like this, but... Seems I underestimated her. She’s got a sharp tongue, I’ll give her that.”

Taggie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a subtle light in her eyes as she straightened slightly.

“I listen to her show at night,” Taggie said simply, her voice steady, her eyes lingering on the now-silent radio, “It was time for everyone to listen to her. I’ve always liked her opinions. She has a way with words.”

Rupert chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze between Taggie and Declan.

“Well, you’ve got a knack for spotting wildflowers with potential, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone teasing but not dismissive. There was a trace of warmth in the way he looked at her, an acknowledgment of her insight even if he wasn’t quite ready to say he agreed.

He liked it when she spoke with certainty, even if it rubbed against his own instincts. And he didn’t miss the way she looked back at him, a smile creeping out of her teeth.

Declan didn’t join in the exchange, his brow furrowed as he stared at the coffee cup in his hands. His grip tightened slightly, a subconscious response as Cassie’s voice echoed in his thoughts. She’d been bold—too bold, perhaps—but her precision, the deliberate weight behind every word, lingered like a static charge.

Declan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. His attention stayed fixed on the now-fading voice, the static swallowing the last of Cassie’s words.

As the room settled into silence, Rupert glanced at him, one brow raised, “You’re awfully quiet, O’Hara. Something on your mind?”

Declan set his mug down, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“She knows how to get attention,” he said simply, “That’s half the battle.”

Rupert’s smirk widened, “And the other half?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking to the window as though searching for something just out of reach.

“Making sure it’s not wasted,” he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute.

Taggie sighed, resuming her whisking, though the motion was slower, her thoughts clearly divided between the batter in her bowl and what her father had just said.

“—Let me tell you about the sponsors,” Cassie pressed on, her tone dropping into something colder, “The ones who dictate what you hear, who decide what stories matter and what gets erased. We’re not reporting the news—we’re selling it. And the price? Your trust.”

The kitchen was silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint crackle of the broadcast. Taggie moved mechanically now, her hands resuming their work with a distracted air. She caught Rupert’s eye briefly, the unspoken question hanging between them: Is Freddie’s niece insane?

Declan, still silent, felt the faintest flicker of something sharper stir in his chest. It wasn’t anger, exactly, though it wasn’t far off. It was recognition—of a battle he had seen too many times in his own career. She wasn’t just fighting a corrupt system; she was taking a wrecking ball to it, piece by piece.

“She’s naming names,” Declan muttered, almost to himself.

“And burning bridges while she’s at it,” Rupert countered, though his usual air of superiority was absent. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound rhythmic and deliberate.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on the radio, his smirk fading as the weight of Cassie’s words settled over him. The easy posture he had held moments before shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as though bracing against the storm her voice carried. The kitchen, once bustling with the hum of morning tasks, had gone eerily quiet. Even the faint scrape of Taggie’s utensils ceased, the air heavy with the raw intensity spilling from the radio.

The cadence of Cassie’s voice had changed—deliberate now, each word like a match striking against flint. It wasn’t just anger fueling her, Declan realized. It was something deeper, sharper. Conviction.

“She is burning, for sure,” he murmured, his tone low but deliberate, “if you want people to see the light…”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, his amusement faint but present. “I didn’t peg you for being an optimist.”

“I’m not,” Declan replied, his voice clipped, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tapped absently against the counter as if keeping time with the rhythm of Cassie’s words. “But I know what it takes to shake people awake. And she’s doing it.”

On the radio, Cassie’s voice dropped, slower now, as though the weight of her decision was settling over her in real-time. The ticking clock above the stove seemed to grow louder, filling the gaps between her sentences, each tick amplifying the tension.

“I can’t stay here,” Cassie’s voice rang out, steady but carrying the weight of exhaustion, each syllable laced with unyielding defiance, “Not in a place that values profit over principle, that rewards complacency and punishes integrity. This is my last broadcast. Consider this my resignation, live on air.”

There was a brief pause, the kind of silence that felt alive, as if the entire town had stopped to hold its breath. The rustle of papers and panicked murmurs on the other side of the broadcast began to rise, chaotic and desperate.

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

The background noise crackled through the radio, growing louder as the urgency escalated. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the cacophony.

“And one last thing,” Cassie’s voice cut through the static again, this time tinged with a grim sort of triumph, “Fuck you, Charles Crawford!”

Declan’s brows shot up, amusement breaking through his otherwise unreadable expression. Rupert, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, shaking his head as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.

“Crawford’s probably tearing his hair out by now,” Rupert remarked dryly, his tone carrying a trace of grudging admiration, “Can’t say I envy him.”

The tension in the room was palpable, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Taggie, who had been meticulously smoothing the edges of her apron, paused mid-motion. Her fingers fidgeted slightly, betraying the concern that clouded her otherwise calm expression.

“Do you think they’ll arrest her?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, hesitant.

Rupert didn’t answer, his attention briefly caught by the steady drip of a coffee pot on the counter. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the shift in his expression—an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth—hinted at unease.

Declan’s silence, however, felt heavier. He remained still, his brow slightly furrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wasn’t ignoring the question; he was somewhere else entirely, his mind dissecting every word Cassie had spoken, the deliberate rhythm of her sentences still echoing in his ears.

She hadn’t just revealed truths. She’d weaponized them, sharpened them into blades that now hung in the air, slicing through the fragile facade of the station. He imagined the chaos unfolding on the other side of her microphone—Crawford’s voice, raw and furious, barking orders; the panicked scurrying of technicians trying and failing to regain control. It was the kind of pandemonium Declan had seen countless times in his own career, though rarely so publicly.

Publicly, people called him the 'Irish Wolfhound'. The moniker stuck for good reason—he was relentless, tenacious, and unyielding in the chase. But Cassandra? She wasn’t hunting like he did.

She was circling, sharp-eyed and calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He exhaled sharply, breaking his stillness as though the weight of realization had settled more deeply over him.

Her voice wasn’t just a broadcast. Cassandra was declaring war.

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

Rupert considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though pondering a move on a chessboard.

“Oh, they’ll arrest her,” he said, his voice laced with certainty, “Crawford won’t let something like this slide. He can’t afford to.”

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them  but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued . Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“ And you respect that ,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

[simp-ly-writes]

Office Love (pt.1)

What if Vox had an assistant that soon became more than that?

Pairing: Vox x assistant!Reader

Warnings: some suggestive content near the end and canon-typical language.

A/N: something different to what I usually write- hope you enjoy!

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Hazbin Hotel Masterlist (PT.2) (PT.3)

↳ When the application advertisement first flashed against your social media feed- you clicked past it very quickly before one of your friends was ushering you to apply. They had been working with the V's for a number of years now and produced a plethora a fan-favorite shows

↳ When you application got accepted and you were being thrown into a suit for the interview, you were all the more thankful when the overlord themselves were not hosting yet the managers were. A more than few warning here and there- but that was with every job you worked in hell. You didn't work hard enough, you were better off dead- simply put.

↳ You did not often see your boss in person after signing the contract with him day one. Only emailing him his schedule that was often cancelled mid-way through the day and you were running out of excuses for his clients

↳ Velvette and Valentino were often more intimidating that Vox. You had gotten used to his tantrums, PR nightmares, and televised cancellations that were often fixed with a light bit of hypnotization that you could only roll your eyes at before going back to your emails

↳ You would memorize his every need, knowing his favorite meals and coffee preferences, when he needed to recharge and even how to text exactly like him. You kept track of every social media handle that held his name, growing his followers while riffing on Alastor- an action that Vox dearly appreciated

↳ As time would progress, you would become too good at your job. So much so that his other six assistants had all gotten fired for lack of polish as Vox excused it. Clinking his coffee mug to yours sat at your desk. He hardly used his own office these days, often taking calls at your computer as you sat on your desk- off to the side as you rearranged his schedule once again

↳ You were starting to become his shadow and he always noticed when you were gone for a minute too long. He liked the reassurance your presence brought him- he enjoyed knowing that you would always know what to say in order to benefit the company and find ways for him not to interaction with people he disliked

↳ Velvette and Valentino noticed this as well- how close you had gotten to their business partner without a second thought. Sometimes you would even show up in replacement for Vox when one of their branches had gone down once again and often times they wished it was you that addressed the problem rather than the man himself

↳ When a reality show comes out, highlighting the lives of overlords all over the city including the three V's (mostly them though for PR that they desperately needed and had made multiple comments on). It did numbers and your friend from earlier could not have been happier getting that promotion to head producer of the show

↳ You soon became a fan favorite for your witty comebacks at the TV head as he wold only smile in return- liking that you had the heart to knock him down a few pegs. The fans would stalk everyones social media profiles, liking each image that had you just cropped out of it

↳ Vox had insisted that you were not to be seen in any of the media production- something about no wanting to corrupt your mind as well. You could only shake your head at this information- all you ever did was stare at screens all day, this comment made Vox's box go pink as his speech buffered. Taking a second to rethink your wording, your cheeks had appeared red while the cameras rolled and money starting pouring in

↳ The fans demanded more attention put towards you, screaming at you from behind the barricades as you walked the corporate building each morning. "CAN I GET A PICTURE WITH YOU," "I SHIP IT," "WORK FOR ME INSTEAD." They started to shove one another over, trying to get your attention as your feet picked up pace

↳ Vox had made his way through the wires and various security cameras settled around the neighbourhood. He wrapped an arm around your waist, ensuring that when the barricade fell and you were swarmed that you would not be dragged away with the crowd

↳ You voiced your thanks once safely in the building as Vox announced a surprise for your recent good work- this was their most profitable quarter yet and you would have Velvette tailored work to wear each day. Picking up the various blue suits you eyed them suspiciously to those of your boss. Vox only shrugged his shoulders before taking a call

↳ The dating allegation grew every week as blushed heavily at the headlines, Vox who now was only found in your office asked what was making you have such a reaction, even when he was in the middle of a meeting. You quickly hid your screen as he could only chuckle, sparking it back to life and projecting it on the monitor

↳ "Oh, so THIS is what has you all red- me is it?" Vox states with pride, leaning over the table and into your personal space as your blush only grows down your neck. You take a sip of your now cold coffee, hiding a wince as you get back on track with answering Valentino back

↳ When you arrive the next morning, dead flowers are found on your desk that make you chuckle, you read the note with a smile before handing the TV man his coffee for the morning, your chairs right beside one another as you work in tandum

↳ Years into your work now, you barley find yourself going home, choosing to stick for the V's movie nights together that they insist on you being present for alongside finding it easier to let Vox know of scheduling changes last minute from within your shared apaprtment

↳ After much demand, you and Vox have a one on one livestream interview for the public within your apartment, you both make small touches to one another, fixing his tie, he holds your knee, rubbing circles with his thumb- the fans are losing their shit as the other to V's sit back and rake in the cash

↳ A question about your work ethic and sex-worker allegation gets read out by Velvette that has Vox glitching out with rage as you pull on the back of his jacket, urging him to calm down as you loop your arm in his, leaning into his side, "run that by me one more time, Velvette," Vox states with a twitch as you blink your eyes towards her- pleading that she does not.

↳ After a particularly good corporate event, you find yourself in Vox's bed as he urges you not to leave, his voice is merely murmurs in your ear as you do not have the heart to roll away from. Soon these off hand-nights become a more common occurrence that as Valentino the slitest bit jealous at first, but when he surprises you in the mornings with a new package that got sent to the wrong apartment, he cannot help put wink at seeing the marks on your skin

↳ You and Vox never made anything official, you were still his assistant of course- his assistant that he would always have a hand on a bit too low for public attention. A worker who was NOT allowed to be asked on a date by someone else. And the person he jumped to protect against the smallest threat but against your name

(PT.2) (PT.3)

↳ Taglist: @jtcat305 @amarokofficial

[urauntiefaye]

can we get more hard thoughts on &team pretty plssss🥺🤎?

&Team as Perverts + Scenarios 🔞

WC: 1634 

TW: Ngl this might make a lot of people uncomfy so viewer discretion advised, Pervert &Team, groping without consent?, Mastubating, Secret photos of the reader, reader is AFAB, Corruption kink, Church Girl reader in Euijoos, Watching reader touch themselves privately, so much panty stealing, Camgirl reader in Takis,  Menaces all of them, Maki is in this, Harua has a sister in this, if uncomfortable with any of this don’t read!, Not proof read, let me know if I forgot anything. 

A/N: Hmm more &Team hard thoughts you say? Let’s see, something that’s been on mind is &Team as Perverts (Def not because of my obsession over Euijoo guys I promise, please you have to believe me)

Kei-

Kei as a pervert guyzo, so I imagine him being like your office boss/manager, maybe even the CEO who knows. But when you started working there, you were always wearing skirts or dresses to work. He really can’t help himself but to stare when you bend over, maybe even trying to catch a peek. When you’re in the break room he always brushes against you, pressing against your back when he grabs a mug. Apologizing saying he was only trying to get the cup, when you’re at work dinners he always sits next to you, maybe even leaning against you. He makes it so obvious though with how he always checks you out, and going to the extent of flirting with you. He follows you on social media and even masturbates to your photos, even maybe taking a video or photo and ‘accidentally’ sending it to you. When the office has a ‘Team Building Exercise Vacation’, where your office has to go on a two nights three day vacation to build up that team work. He would be in charge of renting a hotel, or a vacay house, but would conveniently accidentally rent one less extra room. 

Fuma-

Fuma as a pervert would be a little more subtle about it. Maybe even fighting against himself when he gets those perverted thoughts. You moved into the house next door, your bedroom window even facing his. He would meet you when you were bringing in a box to the house but dropping it. He helped you pick it up, and offered to help bring the rest in, which you agree. At first he would fine, helping you and you helping him, becoming close very quickly. But when he saw you getting changed in your room, blinds wide open so he got the full view. He just couldn’t help himself but get off. Feeling guilty instantly afterwards, but now his brain is flooded with images and scenes of you. Even going to the lengths of when he’s over at your place for dinner, to go to your bathroom and rub one out when he sees you in your lounge wear. Revealing so much skin, and when you sat down on the couch to watch a movie, he felt he was going to burst when your tank strap fell off your shoulder. Reaching out to push it back up, his body burning when he touched your skin and not being able to tear his eyes away from your chest. 

Nicholas-

Another who makes it obvious that he’s a perv. He became friends with you via another friend, he just loved the way you look and needed you. He has a photo album dedicated to photos of you, some of you smiling or having fun when at get togethers. But others are of you bending down, and maybe even some pantie shots. He always gets off to them at night, just imagining you spread wide taking his dick like a good girl. When you spend the night he always offers his bed for you, even sleeping with you saying it’s okay, that you’re friends. But he really just wants you to lay next to him, maybe even cuddle up and press your ass against him. Maybe even grinding against you, he would have to sneak off to the bathroom to masturbate. He even goes on websites to just talk about all the filthy things he wants to do to you. 

Euijoo-

The pervert of perverts but secret about it. Being childhood friends with him and growing up in church together. Your parents never being able to separate you two, Euijoo has such a big crush on you growing up. And when you became adults his crush got so bad, his thoughts spiraling. You were the perfect little Christian girl, always going to Bible study, and attending every church meeting, even helping out in outside of Church activities. Your parents are also being super strict and wanting to keep you pure, going to the extent of even opting you out of sex ed in school because you were too young to learn about those things. So in adulthood you still had no idea about anything sex related. Euijoo loved this about you, but wanting to corrupt you so badly, he just can’t get the images of you sucking him off, and how you would take his dick for the very first time. Slowly losing your innocence to him, what helped him keep by was stealing your panties, even maybe coping a feel accidentally. He feels guilty about it, but he really can’t help it. 

Yuma-

Sooo perverted and let’s you know it too, you being coworkers at a restaurant. Both having to wear uniforms but yours being a cute little skirt. When no one is looking he always lifts your skirt up and touches you. Melts the way you always react to his touches, he always whispers dirty things in your ear, telling you what he wants to do to you. How he just wants to bend you over and take you right there in front of everyone. Even though you always get flustered and yell at him, you never report him because you secretly love it and wish he would do something. Especially when you’re in the back grabbing some more seasoning since the kitchen ran out. Yuma follows you and pinning you against the wall, pressing his knee against your sensitive spot. Getting so close to where he’s about to kiss you, but never doing so and just letting you go and walk away like nothing ever happened. 

Jo-

The quiet guy in your lectures, always coming off as an elite and intelligent student, even being the top of his major. No one would take him as a pervert, but he is especially you. The bimbo of the school, being on the cheerleading team and always wearing such tight and revealing clothes. He always fantasizes about having his way with you, but is too scared to even approach you, so he just decides to stay to himself. But when his Calculus professor asks him if he can tutor you he would agree so fast. Going over to your place and entering your room, he’d have to fight back his boner just by the scent of your room. Getting to the tutoring part he’d be distracted, mostly because you always tried to change the subject, but also because he was so close to you and could feel your leg up against his. Wearing such tiny shorts that left barely nothing to the imagination. He would steal your underwear when you excused yourself to the bathroom. Even taking pictures of your bras and lingerie sets. 

Harua-

You were his sister's friend from college, always over and hanging out. He had a crush on you the moment you walked in the house. He would start off shy and introverted, but when you spoke to him and was so nice he fell so hard. Whenever you spent the night he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you, watching how you walked around so comfortably. And when it was summertime and you came over, bringing your swimsuit because they had a pool. He would lock himself in his room, just the sight of you in such a thing made him go into overdrive. So when you eventually moved in with them because you couldn’t afford your own place anymore, and his parents agreed. I swear his pervert tendencies grew ever more, always sneaking into your room when you weren’t in it. Just to lay on your bed and hump your pillow, imagining it was you instead, even hearing your moans when you masturbated thinking no one was home. He would also ‘accidentally’ walk into the bathroom when you were showering, saying he knocked and didn’t know you were in there. 

Taki-

Being besties with you was so hard for Taki, especially since he had a secret crush on you. But what didn’t help was when you opened up an onlyfans, he knew this because well you were best friends and told each other everything. He would never tell you but he was one of your highest paying subscribers, and the most loyal, always logging in for your every video and live streams. You would eventually start calling out his username, even moaning it when you played with yourself. When you announce you’ll have a special event going on, that you'll randomly choose one of your followers to have a private video chat with. And when you announced his name he got so excited but worried, he won’t show you his face hoping you won’t recognize him or his voice. Luckily you didn’t, but when you came over the following day and told him about it he felt some sense of pride when you told him you keep thinking about the anonymous fan. 

Maki-

He was your new roommate, moving in with you he didn’t think it would be an issue. But boy was he wrong. When he barged into your room, catching you off guard as you were mid-changing, pants already off and shirt halfway off. He would apologize and leave, but he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. Every single thing you did now had an effect on him, he couldn’t even stand next to you without catching himself peering down your shirt. You would think he’s being so weird, but not really minding his nervous demeanor towards you. He would even start touching himself when he saw your door slightly open as you touched yourself, moaning so loudly not thinking he was there. He would think he was such a pervert (he was) but he would also blame you for having that kind of effect on him. 

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Okay, I've Read Worm: A Retrospective Part 2: What The Fuck Did I Just Read?

So I don't mean literally 'what did I read'. I know and understand the plot, and while I probably didn't pick up on all the references and cape theme stuff Wildbow was going for, it was established a while ago that I wouldn't. And I may not have understood every scene and character the way may intended, but sincerely, fuck his intent, it sometimes sucks.

What I mean by this is -

I heard a lot about Worm before I read it. "Grimdark" "Depressing" "Optimistic" (Yes, someone actually called Worm an Optimistic Work which is... a take), "Bleak" "A Deconstruction" "A Love Letter To The Superhero Genre" "A Takedown of the Superhero Genre" "Just A Fucking Story" "The Greatest Piece Of Superhero Media Ever" and god knows what else.

I didn't hear anyone call worm a Reconstruction until I was partway into the Work, when I also discovered TV tropes calls it that which is... well, we'll get into that.

And I heard Wildbow called "A Hack" "A Nihilist" "A Guy Who Lets His Problems With Authority Get Ahead Of Him" (Or something to that effect" "An Amazing Writer" "A God Amongst Men" (Okay, not really on that last one, but I have made jokes about Wildbow having cultists or the 'Church of Wildbow' for a reason, because some people are really fucking out here acting like he's just... way better than he is, imo. Like, beyond just the degree of just subjective opinion. Not that I think Wildbow deliberately fostered such a mentality... probably)

So. What the fuck did I just read? What is Worm?

Well I am comfortable in saying that Worm is Grim, Bleak, Depressing. A lot of really bad shit happens without neat narrative resolution, there's a lot of hurt and not a lot of comfort. Taylor's life mostly gets worse, and most other people's lives mostly get worse. There's not a lot of unambiguous victories, even the ones that are straight up victories come at hilariously lopsided costs, the whole damn world is slowly collapsing, and everyone in authority is largely either complicit, incompetent, overwhelmed, corrupt, or useless. Almost nobody is just straight up heroic, and those who are usually die (in often pointless ways) or get treated as incredibly naïve by the narrative. Often both. Worm often feels pretty hopeless, and even the hope is pretty fragile and strained, when it's there.

Is Worm dark? Is it Grimdark? Well... that's trickier. There are a hell of a lot of dark implications of Worm, a lot of dark stuff that is hinted at, or insisted is there by the writer (*cough* *Cough*) but in terms of the actual darkness onscreen... depending on how one defines 'Grimdark' - how reliant are they on the conventional 4chan inspired definition or if they've expanded their understanding of the word and so on - it could qualify, but... *equivocating hand gesture*. I am reasonably comfortable that Worm itself never really quite qualifies as grimdark. The darkness on the screen is not really enough, and really, under the narrowest of 4chan definitions, it probably isn't even grim. Though I would say that there's a point where the 4chan Noble/Grim Bright/Dark four quadrant approach becomes a useless category of analysis.

I think in most cases people who call Worm grimdark are either parroting other people, lack adequate terminology to really describe what they mean (because Worm is rather hard to put a box around) or have very low standards for 'grimdark'. But I don't think everyone is talking out of their ass, because like I said, there's a lot of really dark implications of Worm. Some likely intended by Wildbow, some the result of probably oversights by him or didn't really quite grasp certain things and just kinda... threw stuff out there without following through. (Not that I blame him, Worm was huge and not every single detail needed to be followed through on, but still. Happens). Worm's entire universe and setting runs on people rather consistently making the decisions that make shit worse.

Like in 90% of the cases, each individual person's decision to make shit worse makes sense from their perspective and understanding their psyches, but it does strain credulity a little, and make it hard to say the story isn't kinda grimdark when almost every decision almost everyone makes makes things worse.

But... technically, I think Worm manages to skate by being grimdark. Sometimes just barely, but just barely can be enough.

I don't think it's particularly controversial to call Worm 'A Deconstruction' or to say that Worm deconstructs elements of the superhero genre. Does Worm Reconstruct... well, yes. It does the deconstructing thing (exploring how so many common elements of the superhero genre don't make a lot of sense) and then it does the reconstructing thing (putting them back together and designing the physics and rules of the universe so they kind of do make more sense).

But I would say that calling Worm a 'Reconstruction' is false advertising. Not because it isn't, but when most people hear the word Deconstruction, they expect a kind of depressing, bleak, grim, sometimes dark, etc story. Reconstructions are thus expected to be more upbeat and optimistic and bright. I don't think this is just me. To be fair, this doesn't have to be true. A deconstructed slasher flick would probably be fairly upbeat and bright, and a reconstructed slasher flick would... probably not be those things. But I think the general implications of the words remain true.

Telling someone Worm is a Reconstruction of the Superhero Genre, before they read it, without a lot of qualifiers, would, I think, be pretty deceptive. Accurate, but deceptive. It is possible to be misleading while being totally accurate, after all.

One thing I hear a lot about is how much more 'realistic' Worm is compared to other superhero media. Without being a deep aficionado about superhero media, I honestly can't say if this is true, but I can say that, as of itself, Worm is not what I would call realistic. Leaving aside the way Wildbow puts his thumb on the scale of 'everyone makes decisions that make shit worse' across the board, there's the fact that every element of the underlying rules of the universe are deliberately, and sometimes quite obviously, contrived to create the necessary parameters for the story he wants. Which is fine, that's perfectly fine worldbuilding and writing, but it's not 'realistic'.

He covers his ass with PtV, using it as an excuse for a lot of shit, but uh... that's still covering his ass, it's still obvious plot device is obvious. Not the worst thing the world, and I've seen much worse handlings of obvious plot device is obvious, but... man, sometimes with his worst WoGs, Wildbow really would have benefited from just admitting it was a plot hole and he made a mistake or he didn't consider something or that 'you know what, yes, it's unlikely that no one shot Jack Slash in the face during his entire career pre-Bonesaw's modifications, but it happened' (i.e. the Cauldron gun social engineering WoG is just so goddamn dumb. Less in of itself and more how it fits to everything else. String enough of his WoGs together and the whole damn setting starts to fall apart)

Things like the CUI, and the Gesellschaft and the way Africa and South America are written speak to the profound lack of realism and the contrived way that the Wormverse got constructed. The Gesellschaft is a perfectly fine plot device to have in a story - a reference and use of the way Nazi and Nazi-created and Nazi-descended and Nazi-related villains and villain organizations are a common trope in superhero comics - but it's not really all that realistic as presented. Wildbow has rather repeatedly insisted that it is, but uh... no, he's wrong. (He has admitted that his handling of South America and Africa weren't great, and to be fair, most of what we know of both could just be filtered through Taylor's own distinctly American Teenager view of the world, and to be more fair, developing entire continents that aren't even close to being in-focus for the story is a tall ask for anyone). But like, Worm isn't realistic. The way Shards work was deliberately contrived to have his intended outcome. Endbringers too. Cauldron. The backstories of characters and organizations show the way they were bent that way to achieve the outcome he wanted. And again, I don't really have a problem with elements of a story being constructed to achieve the intended outcome. People who get too focused on the worldbuilding will sometimes write themselves into a hole where the needs of the story and the needs of the Worldbuilding conflict. Wildbow almost always picked the story. It can be frustrating for people trying to isolate the elements of the world to write fanfics or analyze the world for like, versus fights or whatever, but... I don't blame the author for that. (Though his inability to just admit that he picked story over worldbuilding and instead keeps pulling a WoG out of the ether to cover his ass is... not great) To be fair, I don't think Wildbow has ever called his work 'More Realistic than Other Superhero Media'. I don't think he set out to create some hyperrealistic superhero story. And the word 'Realistic' is tossed around a lot without really clarifying what someone means. I honestly don't really call things realistic that often for that reason.

The problem here isn't Worm, or Wildbow, but some of his fans. Like I said, there's a reason why I joke about a 'Church of Wildbow.' There's people who have said that Worm has 'ruined' other superhero media for them and to those people... I mean, ruined is subjective, and like I've said repeatedly, I'm not really into superhero media, but like, deconstructing and even reconstructing the Superhero genre is not new? DC and Marvel and a lot of smaller presses have been doing that since like, the 90s? At least? I've already address how Worm doesn't seem particularly realistic to me. I think in some cases, what they may mean is that Worm is more cohesive. It's one single story told by one guy with one clear vision. Comic books in particular can experience all sorts of tonal and narrative whiplash between runs, as writers change, as artists change, as executive meddling can interfere. And that's pretty true. (*sings* We don't talk about Waaard oh-no-no).

But I also feel like if Worm really did ruin all other superhero media for you... maybe you weren't actually that into superhero media? Even if you've read a lot of it, maybe Superhero media wasn't actually for you? Just maybe?

Now, this all brings us back to the question that started this: What the Fuck did I just Read? And the disappointing answer is that... putting a box around Worm is really fucking hard. It doesn't really fit into a nice, simple, easy, pithy descriptor. Not one that doesn't mislead. I mean, Worm is grim, bleak and depressing, but it is more than that. Worm is... Worm a lot of things.

I think honestly the closest thing to a nice, succicnt, easy way to describe Worm is this one:

I don't know if Wildbow was the one to use this to describe Worm first, or if a Fan did or what, but... yeah. That's Worm.

That's what the fuck I just read.

(I did hope to go into 'Who the Hell is Worm For' question here, but uh... this is pretty long as it is, so we'll leave that off for later.)

[chocorachocora]

Did the Dazzlings use to be ponies?

The box art always features them as horses with fairy-like wings opposed to their siren-seahorse forms. Yet it was never shown in any other piece of media?

Not even in the comics. And them being on the toys doesn't prove anything since there's princess Skyla, a wholeass character who isn't canon.

In terms of canonity it is equally possible that they were cooking up something and that they just thought that seahorse forms were ugly.

But still, it makes a lot of sense for them to originally be ponies and that their siren forms are some form of corrupt magic.

Their seahorse forms don't translate into their human designs, like at all. Sure, that could be an example of EQG not thinking their designs through (like Luna ans Cheerilee) but then explain why they have cutie marks.

Like, they are very pony-specific things, to the point where not every character in EQG has them unless we are supposed to recognize them as ponies. And sure, the reason they don't match their seahorse forms could just be cause theyd look rather boring otherwise, but the designs could've worked without cutie marks so they wouldn't add them for no reason, right?

[darklinaforever]

Sorry, but people who say that we shouldn't romanticize Saurondriel / Haladriel, and that people who ship these two are delusional... It scares me. It scares me for understanding media / media literacy. The analysis that gets lost in people, etc. Literally, the writers, who wrote the show, have confirmed at this point that Sauron loved Galadriel and that Galadriel was in love with Halbrand. They are written as a romance, without the words I love you being spoken, or a kiss being shown. They tick most of the classic romantic codes of romance in general (in season 1) ! But more than that, they also have dialogues literally modeled on Arwen and Aragorn, the main couple of the Lord of the Rings film trilogy ! (How can you refuse at this stage to see this damn romance ?!) And above all Saurondriel, with the end of season 1 and season 2, ticks the Dark Romance boxes ! Made to be Dark then ! Complicated, twisted, toxic, corrupt! It's not romanticizing to say that they love each other ! It's just the canonical truth of the characters ! Toxicity, once again, does not exclude love ! In fiction or in reality ! Love is not always something healthy and pure, we must stop with this myth. People who think they're smart for spouting bullshit about not romanticizing Sauron & Galadriel should just shut up at this point. And generally, they are the same ones who say that Sauron cannot love, because he is corrupt but also and above all because he is a Maiar. While we all know very well that the Maiars can fall in love in Tolkien's universe. The other irony is that these people saying this call themselves book purists... Really ? My eye. It's like people who say that by believing that Sauron actually loves Galadriel, we are falling into his trap like Galadriel. Or how to infantilize the spectators... Not like there are tons of scenes without Galadriel or when Galadriel isn't looking, which shows that yes, Sauron does have feelings for Galadriel (but I imagine that Sauron is aware of the spectator who is watching and wants to deceive us for these people who don't know how a fictional story works). Not like they were also coded as being extremely similar, or forms of soulmates... No, not at all.

[brucebocchi]

Ranking 2024 anime, Pt. 4: #20-11

hey, this post is also available on my ko-fi, so please check it out and consider tipping/donating as i do this for free and am currently between jobs. you can find part 1 of the list here, part 2 here, and part 3 here. thanks!

You know, I'd really planned to keep my re-reviews much shorter but I'm finding it harder to do so when I get into the anime I actually liked. Maybe that's a good thing.

And away we go.

20. Solo Leveling

Portal isekai, sad loser secretly gains crazy powers and instantly becomes a stoic gigachad, menu screens everywhere, entry-level power fantasy. You’ve seen it before. Honestly, Solo Leveling is total slop. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

If you’ve watched a couple isekai, like, ever, you’re not going to find much new here. There’s some interesting enough worldbuilding outside of the dungeon stuff; I did find myself intrigued by the degree to which this preponderance of portals would influence Korean economics and politics, and even moreso that much of the story so far revolves around how those corrupting powers can lead to hunters using dungeons as their own playgrounds for personal gain at others’ expense. There also seems to be a larger malefactor behind all of the menu screens driving protagonist Sung Jinwoo’s growth and titular leveling, so there’s the hook.

Even putting aside the few interesting parts of the otherwise boilerplate story, Solo Leveling both looks and sounds pretty darn good. The soundtrack is laden with Hiroyuki Sawano’s trademark build-ups and drops, and though the character art and dungeon designs aren’t always the most eye-catching (early on it did look like A-1 Pictures was going to default to “fuck it, we’re making money anyway” mode), the action animation goes absolutely bonkers in its best moments.

The second season is already up and running, and although I can barely remember anyone’s name outside of the protagonist (maybe that’s on me, I consume very little Korean media and am not great at retaining Korean names), I’m in this for the long haul. Great turn-your-brain-off action schlock.

19. Wind Breaker

At this point you could put a sign that says “DELINQUENT WITH A HEART OF GOLD” underneath a box-and-stick trap and I’d walk right in. I am not immune to your Josukes Higashikata, your Ryujis Sakamoto, what have you. The angry and violent type who will nevertheless stick up for what’s right and remain fiercely loyal to those they care about. Wind Breaker is rife with characters who fit that archetype, but it’s not exactly a delinquent anime so much as it’s a Dudes anime. More specifically, a Dudes Rock anime.

Yes, Wind Breaker’s ensemble cast is almost entirely Dudes, and they do indeed Rock. Protagonist Haruka is a self-inflicted outcast, and his tsundere ass does not appreciate all the positive attention he’s receiving after proving himself in street combat prior to his transfer to an all-delinquents high school. Nevertheless, he wants to fight his way to the top of his new environment, and if that means sticking up for the little guy along the way, all the better. 

I love that Wind Breaker’s overarching messages of self-improvement and helping the weak without expecting a reward are basically anathema for the base power fantasies that largely come from light novels over the past decade and change, but even moreso that Haruka, loner that he is, keeps having to learn that he’s not going to get anywhere without surrounding himself with the right people and relying on their support. Battle shonen are usually pretty blatant with this stuff, but to see it spelled out so clearly in a series like this just hits right.

Wind Breaker looks terrific at just about every step, too. Every single thing I’ve seen from CloverWorks from the past few years has been a bop, which makes it that much more maddening that this is the studio that bungled the Persona 5 anime and supposedly botched The Promised Neverland in its second season. I get that not everything works out as planned sometimes but I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop sometimes. I’m glad it’s been smooth so far, at least. Some pacing issues and a weird place to end the show, but I know for a fact I'll be there when this comes back in spring.

18. Laid-Back Camp, season 3

I am not immune to the Cute Girls Doing Cute Things genre, and when all is said and done I think Yuru Camp could very well stand alone at the top. A show this directly responsible for the uptick in camping culture and countryside tourism in Japan clearly holds some sway over pop culture, and it’s clearly deserved.

Returning to the present day after the 2022 film gave us a look at the Outdoor Club in adulthood, Yuru Camp’s third season gives us exactly what we wanted: More of the same. We largely focus on the solo expeditions of Rin, Nadeshiko, and the latter’s hometown friend Ayano as they trek to their collective meetup spot, and as the seasons change we get the entire gang together for some springtime hanami. It’s cute, it’s funny, it’s whimsical, it’s Yuru Camp. You know what you’re getting into at this point.

With studio Eightbit taking over the series in its third season, Yuru Camp still largely looks the same, and wonderfully so, but it can be a bit off at times: CGI vehicles look far more distractingly out-of-place, and for as gorgeous as the background art was in the first two seasons and movie, it can come across as a bit more uncanny this time out. I don’t know whether some of the shots of sakura branches were traced or run through some kind of AI post-processing from archival photos, and I hate to speculate on that, but given that this is the same studio that bafflingly under-animates the money printer that is Blue Lock, I can’t exactly put it past them.

Production quibbles aside, I can’t really complain about more Yuru Camp. It’s a bit lighter on plot than previous seasons, but this is a series that was light on plot to begin with. We get to spend time with these goofs, learn about camping and the Japanese countryside, and then maybe go touch grass ourselves. That’s a good message for a Cute Girls Doing Cute Things series to have: Go do your own cute things.

17. NieR: Automata Ver. 1.1a, part 2

The second half of this adaptation was going to be the metric by which fans of the 2017 action-RPG judged the whole work. The first half in 2023, covering the game’s A and B routes, was a solid if troubled production that did a good job of covering the narrative and action, even implementing surprising easter eggs from NieR Replicant along the way. Sloppy CGI integration in early episodes and a COVID-induced delay hampered things, though, so there were some nerves about the show’s return.

Any fears were quickly allayed once the second half of the series began, covering the real meat of the story in routes C-E. Ver. 1.1a immediately looked exceptional, with expressive character animation and fluid action sequences. Real pathos was instilled into the route’s early tragedies. Most welcome of all was the serious work put into expanding A2’s character and role in the story (as well as her backside). It felt like she’d gotten the short end of the stick narratively in the game, so it felt right to spend more time with her, tie her story in the present back to the past that was hinted at in the Resistance flashbacks, and just get to see her be a tsundere a couple times. I’m gonna have to go back and rewatch the whole series dubbed because I just know Cherami Leigh crushed it.

I’m of two minds about Ver. 1.1a as a whole: On one hand, this is just about as good an adaptation of the game as we probably could have gotten. On the other, a big part of what makes the NieR games’ narratives work so well comes from the fact that they could pretty much only be told through the framework of a video game. While Ver. 1.1a does a perfectly fine job of delivering the game’s narrative and providing its own take on the game’s extremely video-game-y ending, much of what makes NieR’s tragedies so impactful is the player’s agency (and occasional lack thereof) in these matters. 

Nothing can replace actually playing NieR: Automata as a means of experiencing its story, but Ver. 1.1a is a darn good companion piece, and one that may even hint at the future of the Drakengard/NieR franchise. Now if only Yoko Taro would focus on something other than gacha games and death game anime for two seconds…

16. Train to the End of the World

The writer/director duo behind Squid Girl came back to give us one of the best and most bizarre original anime this year. Train to the End of the World is overtly and unapologetically weird, and that’s the way I like ‘em.

This weird and wonderful trek across a warped and wildly varied landscape dazzles the eyes and rots the brain in unexpected ways, but it’s a stellar character comedy through and through. Shuumatsu Train’s oddball protagonists are goofy, galaxy-brained, and sometimes flat-out mean in ways that only teenage girls can be. The dialogue is expertly written and some of the punchiest I’ve ever seen in anime. The girls bicker, mess with strangers, and engage in the kinds of inane conversations you only have when you’re the most bored you’ve ever been in your life.

While rarely laugh-out-loud funny, Train to the End of the World is intrinsically hilarious. The sheer absurdity on display is the kind that leaves you just shaking your head in disbelief. One episode they’re playing House of the Dead to get out of a real-life zombie situation, and in another they’re acting out their favorite fictional anime that you, the viewer, are just expected to know about already. It’s a stupid show in the smartest ways; a classical Homerian epic with ruminations on the future, but also one where the girls threaten to wipe out a Lilliputian colony by peeing on it. It’s both eschatological and scatological. With the recent discourse over modern adaptations and interpretations of The Odyssey, this anime might as well be the nuclear option.

Train to the End of the World was a standout in a strong spring season, but it didn’t shake out super high in a long and darn good year of anime. That’s fine and all, but I really hope it ends up attaining the cult hit status it seemed destined for. 

15. Mayonaka Punch

This one had been distant on my radar for a couple of weeks after it premiered, but as soon as I found out it was a P.A. Works original, I picked it up immediately. Any original series by the studio that gave us Akiba Maid War’s glorious gut-wrenching insanity (as well as last year’s exceptional Skip and Loafer adaptation) is going to get my attention, and although Mayonaka Punch doesn’t quite reach the same highs as Akiba Maid War, it does try to match the latter’s most madcap moments.

I don’t have a better pitch than “Canceled YouTuber starts up a new channel with a house full of lesbian vampires,” nor do I really need one. Mayonaka Punch’s comedy largely revolves around the personality clash between the disaffected, avoidant Masaki and the pushy, hyperactive Live (who definitely wants Masaki for more than just her blood), but the whole cast is a riot. Throwing in a baby day trader, a taciturn fujoshi, and a big-titty pachinko fiend are just the right spices to make this a particularly tasty stew.

Chaos naturally ensues, and watching these women try to channel it into a successful YouTube channel is an easy recipe for comedy. Everyone has terrific chemistry and I was rapt with attention every time we got to learn more about each of these vampire girls’ history. What came as a huge surprise, though, was how potent some of the emotional hits ended up, even when it involved characters outside of the main pairing. The fact that the biggest one came in just the fourth episode was a masterstroke; I was already on board for the comedy but just like that I was fully invested in a character other than the one who wants to suck the protagonist dry. I’m not rephrasing that.

This one absolutely deserves to be a cult classic, and the door is left open just maddeningly enough at the end that I can only pray for more. Mayonaka Punch is a boatload of fun and deserves way more attention than it’s gotten. You can change that. Right now. Watch this show.

Prior to writing this, Fairouz Ai (Live’s voice actress and a huge presence in a handful of the shows I’ve already discussed) announced that she would be taking a hiatus from VA work following a PTSD diagnosis. I wish her all of the time, recovery, and support she needs.

14. Urusei Yatsura (2022), season 2

The opening salvo in the ongoing Rumiko Takahashi revival (weird thing to say about a mangaka who’s still alive and working, I know) returned this year for the second half of its “all-stars” run, marathoning us through retellings of the classic manga’s greatest hits, the oddest of its many oddballs, and its spectacular, heartfelt conclusion. More Lum is always a good thing.

I’ve written plenty about Urusei Yatsura’s remake following each cour except the first, and I don’t have much more to add at this point. It’s a classic for a reason and it laid the foundations for dozens of jokes, tropes, and standards that are fundamental to comedy in anime to this day. Even when some of the jokes may come off as trite or tropey, it’s easy to see just how and why it made Takahashi so successful. The exaggerated slice-of-life hijinks, outsized slapstick, and time-and-space surrealness are just as much of a treat as the deep, eclectic cast. And to top it all off, here’s Ataru and Lum being a couple of freaks who deserve each other.

Even though the 46-episode run certainly feels truncated compared to the 191 episodes, six films, and ten OVAs that came before it, David Production did a fine job of putting a modern touch on such a classic work and highlighting its strengths. And even though most of the run was an abridged run through the greatest hits, I’m really glad the studio made sure to dedicate the last few episodes to the manga’s final arc, bringing Lum and Ataru together in a beautiful and (briefly) satisfying climax.

And even for as satisfying as that ending was, it was nearly overshadowed by…

13. Ranma ½ (2024)

…the revival of Takahashi’s biggest hit.

Yes, right on the heels of the ending of the remake of her landmark romcom classic, came the announcement that her even BIGGER landmark romcom classic was also getting a remake. Ranma ½ is one of the hallmarks of 90s anime writ large, working late-80s Japan’s fascination with Chinese martial arts (partially due to Dragon Ball’s success) into a romantic-comedy framework that also accidentally served as the genesis of the harem genre. I’d somehow never actually engaged with Ranma prior to the remake, so I was happy to get in on a new ground floor and I was immediately sold.

As the youngest daughter of the Tendo Dojo, Akane Tendo is put in a predicament when her father betrothes her (at her sisters’ urging) to his friend’s son, Ranma Saotome. Though both are skilled fighters and a good match in that regard, Akane is a bit of a hothead and doesn’t much care for boys, so she’s not a fan of this arrangement, but it’s made all the more bizarre by the fact that Ranma is also a girl sometimes. Thanks to a bizarre accident in China, Ranma turns into a girl when soaked with cold water and back into a boy when hit with hot water. Shenanigans ensue as Ranma and Akane’s contentious relationship hits innumerable peaks and valleys, all the while fighting off an ever-growing menagerie of powerful, fight-happy suitors gunning for the hands and lips of Akane and both versions of Ranma.

MAPPA of all studios being the one to re-adapt Ranma came as a surprise, and you probably could’ve convinced me David Production took over this Takahashi adaptation as well. Ranma’s remake adopts several of the same visual flairs you’d see in Urusei Yatsura, including the Ben Day dots, color inversions, and manga-style onscreen onomatopoeias. On the other hand, while most of the moment-to-moment character animation is pretty much what you’d expect from any given anime, several of the action sequences are very well-animated to MAPPA’s typically high standard. I just hope the animators weren’t getting the Chainsaw Man or Jujutsu Kaisen treatment.

Ranma ½ is as hilarious as ever, but it can get a little wonky thematically when it comes to gender politics, boundaries, and expectations, as I’d been made aware before ever engaging with the work. I also knew from the Urusei Yatsura remake that this was basically Takahashi’s wheelhouse, as there are a couple of pretty genderbendy characters in there as well. Several of the male antagonists in Ranma are more than a little pushy when it comes to women who catch their eye, and a lot of the humor around Ranma’s gender swaps revolves around how their male socialization affects the lack of modesty with which they present their female form (more on that later). People who are much better versed in gender matters than myself, both academically and personally, can speak on the positives and negatives of these things much better than I can, and it’s too early in the series for me to really make a judgment call. I do think it’s odd, though, that even with the central romance, Akane doesn’t seem to remotely entertain the thought of getting involved with Ranma’s female side, and unfortunately I don’t really see that ever happening. So far, all of these things just come across as flat-out silly and more of a product of its time than anything nefarious. 

The original Ranma ½ adaptation remains a seminal work for a solid generation and a half of anime fans, so of course a remake was going to be met with some criticism. Some didn’t appreciate the more muted color palette compared to the late 80s/early 90s Studio Deen version, and while it’s certainly missing some of the flair of the hand-painted backgrounds and saturated lighting effects the medium has missed since that era, I personally like the softer hues; I find them a lot more reminiscent of Rumiko Takahashi’s own colorations for her art outside of the manga. It’s not as technicolor as the Urusei Yatsura remake, but I think that actually helps set the new Ranma apart rather than riding the former’s coattails.

The main difference people seem to be complaining about, however, has more to do with boobs. Takahashi has never been shy about including nudity in her manga, and in an era where uncensored bazongas were perfectly fine to publish in boys’ manga magazines, she was typically more matter-of-fact about the female form instead of pursuing titillation. As such, a story like Ranma’s, in which its title character is typically blase about presenting their female incarnation modestly, had a lot to work with on that front, and the original anime played along.

Not so with the MAPPA version. Nipples are conspicuously missing in scenes that legitimately do call for nudity, and an ass crack appears to be missing from an early scene as well. Personally, I don’t mind the Barbie doll treatment, and as I’d been reading the manga as the anime’s story progressed, I didn't find all that much missing in the transition from page to screen. Weebs tend to convince themselves they’re the most oppressed people on earth, so of course there were cries of censorship, which is a claim I don’t really care to entertain. These are different times, broadcast regulations in Japan are almost certainly different from what they were 35 years ago, and Netflix and/or MAPPA likely didn’t see the need for it. Could be any of those things. I’m not losing sleep over it.

And with that, I’m done talking about Rumiko Takahashi (for now). I’m grateful for everything related to her work, even tangentially, that came out this year, and my life is richer for it. I’m glad to have gotten into her work in earnest this year, and I can say with all conviction (hot take incoming) that she’s one of the greatest mangaka ever. I look forward to diving further into even more of her work.

12. The Elusive Samurai

I’d have been perfectly happy if Wind Breaker had been CloverWorks’ only beautifully-animated oddball shonen hit this year, and then they went and outdid themselves the very next season with this one.

The Elusive Samurai is a gorgeous, timeless-looking piece of historical fiction beginning at the very end of the Kamakura period, following the last survivor of the Hojo clan, the young Tokiyuki, as he’s urged by an eccentric priest to lead a pack of freedom fighters and take revenge. Despite coming from a prominent family within the shogunate, Tokiyuki was an impertinent kid and preferred to play hide-and-seek instead of attending any combat training. The priest, Yorishige, receives a vision of the future that predicts that Tokiyuki will fell his family’s usurper not by becoming a powerful warrior, but by doing what he’s already best at: Being a squirrelly little shit.

I just gushed about how good this show looks three months ago, and even now I’m thinking back fondly on how well it blends whimsy with brutality. You can have Yorishige and the kids goofing off and cracking jokes one minute and vibrant crimson beheadings the next. Even little Tokiyuki makes a joyful game out of slicing a bandit’s veins to ribbons later in the season. It feels like a callback to anime films and OVAs of the 80s, with the film grain effect to match. Almost every single thing about this show looks and sounds incredible.

Of course, there’s the CGI. I really don’t like complaining about that sort of thing, but it was such a blatant and unnecessary cost-cutting move that it almost cheapens the rest of the show. Look, I get that horses can be a pain to hand-animate after a while, but having characters’s CGI models speaking while riding on horseback is just enough to take me out of the show, especially when they already look as bizarre as, say, Sadamune. How that passed muster with the rest of the show’s standard is beyond me.

So, maybe I did dock it a spot or two for that, but I see that as a wrinkle that can be ironed out. The Elusive Samurai is absurdly promising, and its debut season is a tremendous statement. Can’t wait for more.

11. Makeine: Too Many Losing Heroines!

As I made clear last year by putting 100 Girlfriends’ debut season in my top ten for 2023, for as much as I love a good straight-up romance story, I have ample room in my heart for trashy dipshit romcoms as well. Makeine shares that affection and forges its own identity from it, establishing its own throne atop a hill of garbage.

This is not a “yeah it’s good if you can look past the tropes” show. Makeine is firmly on its bullshit, and it is firmly about its bullshit. It’s not nearly as off-the-wall as 100 Girlfriends, few shows are, but it’s well aware of your expectations and leaves you guessing whether you’ll have them expertly subverted or just thrown right back in your face. Even the protagonist, the light novel fanatic Nukumizu, is calling out the tropes as they happen, but it’s been a fun time watching him learn that he’s more than just a wet-blanket LN protagonist. He thinks he’s just along for the ride like any other blank-faced self-insert in these stories, only to get roped into the personal lives of these poor girls and learn that, yes, they are real people and that, yes, he is too.

I could go on and on about Too Many Losing Heroines’ idiosyncrasies and offbeat characters and punchy dialogue, but I did that plenty just a few months ago. Instead, I want to call attention once more to just how freakishly well-made this show is. A-1 Pictures had zero reason to go this hard on a goofy, trashy light novel romcom adaptation, and yet here they were, throwing their A-team at the whole project. Character animations are intricate, background art is sumptuous, lighting effects immaculate, and music on point at all times. The OP is an earworm (and one of a surprising number of ska intros and outros I’ve taken in this year), and having each of the main titular heroines perform her own story-appropriate ED was a masterstroke. Even the visual gags are perfect and allowed to land on their own.

I already cannot wait for more of this. If A-1 has given us all we’re going to get of the Kaguya-sama anime, then I’m as all-in on Makeine as they are. Not the best romcom out there, but easily one of the best-made out there.

[fraugwinska]

DoubleTrouble No. 2 - Missionary Impossible

Yes, we did Team up again - the wonderful @macabr3-barbi3 and my humble self wrote another DoubleTrouble fic, based of a hilarious FranticFanfic game result (If you are a writer and have some friends who also indulge in fanfiction, check the game out: www.franaticfanfic.com - Your throat will hate you but the laughter makes it worth it!)

This time we give all of you Vox Lovers a real Treat! Mine is the Readers POV, while Barbie provided Vox's POV - get the TV's dirty version right here.

And now, without further ado:

Explicit Sexual content - Minors DNI - 18+ - 6.5k words

You had to admit: Breaking into Lucifer’s personal vault was your boldest and most impressive job yet. You had your concerns - normally you didn’t take jobs that seemed too shady or downright wrong to you - but you didn’t steal anything powerful, just a bottle of his vanished wife’s perfume. You shake your head at the memory. Most certainly one of her many, still very active superfans, kind of icky to be honest. But money talks, and boy did that client talk.

The only downside had been that for the first time, the 666 Evening News had a picture of you.

Granted, blurry, obstructed and absolutely not usable at all - but it still irked you to no end. They didn’t call you the ‘Traceless Thief’ for nothing.

But even though no one was more the wiser about your identity, even though Lucifer begrudgingly stopped looking for witnesses, even though the gossip on the streets about speculations who the Traceless Thief could’ve been died down - ever since that night, you felt like you were being watched.

The next jobs you take go without news coverage and media attention, and yet, you grow more and more paranoid. Hell has many eyes - figuratively and literally - and you feel them all on you. But there is work to be done and a living to be earned - and the tiny alibi antique bookshop you keep definitely doesn’t provide. No one sane wants old shit in hell - and the rare specimens that do and visit the dingy little space under your apartment come and go, disappointed in the stock you barely keep.

Which is fine by you - you only really need it for one thing. The PO Box.

The wonderfully boring, uninteresting PO Box of the ‘Dusty Pages’ bookshop was your portal to the real money. Hell had become a lot better the day you mastered the powers the underworld granted you: No physical barrier could contain you. Being intangible granted you freedom, and to return to the profession you were best in: Stealing Shit.

Of course, noble causes like overturning corrupt governments by breaking into officials homes and publishing their many crimes was still stealing, if you ask heaven that is, and it landed you in hell. You gave up being salty about it, and made the best out of the situation.

“Hey Frankie. How’s the wife?” The post office clerk, a grumpy looking crocodile in an ill-fitting checkered suit huffs.

“Still fucking annoying, as always. Each day I’m getting closer to bribing an exterminator to kill the bitch just to shut her up for good.”

You chuckled, leaning on the counter and tapping your fingers on the scratched wood.

“Aw, did you burn the meatloaf again? You know Alice hates that.” Frankie gives you an exasperated look, which you meet with a mocking grin.

“You want something? Except for getting on my nerves?”

You shrug, twirling a tiny key on a string around your finger. Frankie, and by proxy Alice too, were parts of your harmless, boring, inconspicuous appearance. Just a normal young sinner, just a normal errand to run, keeping normal small talk with the clerks.

“Just checking my PO Box. I’m waiting on a few rare books I ordered to restock.”

“Uh-huh. Tell someone who gives a shit.”

The crocodile turns away, adjusting his small, round reading glasses and eager to ignore you. Perfect.

“Always nice to chat with you, Frankie.” you say and saunter over to the little door with the number 13. The quiet click always sounds satisfyingly like a little exclamation of joy and like cashflow, and under the ‘Old Crap & Thingamajigs’ catalog you found what you were hoping for. A thick envelope and a letter - new jetstream-bathtub, here you come.

God, why were the VoxTech maintenance uniforms so fucking skimpy?

You grumble silently, cursing yourself that you haven’t grabbed the male one. But that would’ve been suspicious, and you couldn’t afford to be suspicious today. Not if you want to get the job done and live to tell the tale. 

The Vee Tower is full of cameras, hundreds of tiny, red blinking lights next to crystal clear lenses, and dead spots were hard to find and a rare occasion. So, when you couldn’t shift through the walls, you had to look like you belonged. And apparently, a fucking laced, black mini-skirt and a top with puffy sleeves that looked more like a fetish bralette was what it took to ‘belong’. The whole point was blending in, not being remembered - and all the female employees from cleanup and maintenance looked the exact same as you. So, unless one was walking around with a bag full of personnel files on hand, you looked like anyone else on this floor.

You stepped into the elevator, the keycard your client had sent you along with the money and initial job offer in hand. Wherever that person got those precious credentials, you were grateful for them because it gave you an easy way to bypass all the layers of security that VoxTech imposed. All that hassle for an incriminating photo.

You sighed when you pressed the button to floor 66, where the CEO of VoxTech enterprises had his private apartment. Vox.

The name was even more intimidating than Lucifer's to you. While the king of hell was aloof, inactive, disinterested in the ongoings of hell, Vox was the absolute opposite. He knew every little secret. VoxTech had millions of eyes and ears. It was a well known fact that he kept his all-seeing spycams on the whole pentagram and his pliant audience in his steely grasp. Always on top of the times, on top of the news, on top of the sales and on top of any business, shady or not, in hell. In the eyes of the citizens of the Pride Ring, Vox and his partners Valentino and Vevette owned practically everything. He had the largest audience in the history of hell, the sharpest wit and the keenest, calculating eye on the prize - a charming manipulator that was considered very much dangerous and not to be underestimated. Which is why you had to plan your gig for a time you were certain he wasn't around.

A shame really - you couldn’t deny, despite his ruthlessness and questionable business practices with which he had built his empire, you kind of admired the self-made TV-demon that rose to overlord status and made quite a big name for himself in stellar time. That, and he was nice to look at too, even with a flatscreen for a head. Oh well.

The ding of the elevator brought you back to the job at hand, and with confident steps, you glanced up and down the corridor. There were a few cameras pointed to the apartment door, but you found a dead spot not far off, and with a content smile, you walked over as if to inspect the carpet, just to shift as you were out of the camera's angle, your body transpiring through the wall, and with a quiet thud, you were inside.

That was the moment the lights went out.

A power outage was the last thing you had expected - in the Vee Tower of all places. The one place in hell that burst with electricity, and you would laugh at the irony if you weren't so tense. The timing is suspicious,and with a beating heart you shuffle forward, trying to phase through the nearest wall.

What the fuck?

You furrow your brows and huff, irritated. The wall is - well, a wall, and while that was a normal state for others, for you? Unimaginable. Your hands are resting against the concrete and steel, normally easy peasy to walk through. But you feel the hardness under your fingertips, much more intense than it should and almost stinging.

Conventional route it is, then, you think begrudgingly and slowly make your way through the corridor, listening into the stillness of the apartment. The corridor led into a spacious living room - flat, modern couches that screamed money and luxury arranged in a half circle, surrounded by various screens, all turned off. In the middle you see the outlines of a metallic, lavish coffee table, empty and clean like in a catalog. It was the kind of space that wasn’t really meant to be lived in, but to show just how much you had that you didn’t really need. A show.

You scanned the room. There was an open arch leading into a kitchen - also polished and top notch empty, not the cluttered mess you had in your apartment - and a closed, narrow door, likely a storage room. But at the opposite end of it, you see a faint, blue stripe of light, teal blue, luring you towards it. A night light maybe, or some indirect mood lighting shit that was all the rage since LED’s hit the Pentagram a few years ago, shining through a cracked door. Intentionally inconspicuous, your brain whispers, but anything was better than the dim darkness you were stumbling in now. 

When you reach the glowing gap and peek cautiously into the adjacent room, one hand almost on the handle, a groan makes you freeze before you could register what you are looking at.

Oh satan.

Vox.

A LOT of Vox.

The overlord was fucking home, and not just that. In his bedroom - your target location - naked, an impressive and glowing cock in hand, working himself in a way he would definitely not appreciate anyone seeing him in. You felt your neck and cheeks flush with heat - another thing you did not expect nor calculate for. But you can’t look away - as surreal and absolutely dangerous this situation is - his deliciously large hands and the sheer sight of his luminous length glistening with precum as he strokes himself cuts your breath short with highly inappropriate lust. The screen in front of him was bright, and for a moment, you were so enraptured with him that you didn’t recognize the silhouette he was pumping himself to.

You.

It’s you.

In this ridiculous maid costume that was unconsciously riding up your ass, sneaking through the corridor, not even half a minute ago. With growing horror you watch yourself taking tentative steps through the living room, the you on the screen hesitating before deciding to move to the left, one arm reaching out to a cracked open door.

“Fuck, yes.”

The words were barely said when your brain kickstarts.

Fuck, no.

He knew. He knew you were here.

In a flight of panic, you bolted for the corridor, back to the door, back to the safety of not-fucking-here, but you couldn’t even make four steps before your wrists were bound by cables shooting out of the walls surrounding you. You ready yourself to slip through them, but again, your powers leave you high and dry again. Helpless, you back away into the nearest wall, and the door opens fully, with the TV demon standing in the frame. Tall, intimidating even butt-fucking-naked, and a cocky smile on his HD face.

“Hello, my dear,” he almost coos and takes a few steps towards you as you writhe in the restrictions, desperately trying to slip out and get the fuck away. “I’m so glad you got my invitation!”

“Invitation?” That makes you still against the cables, your eyes darting over his face, confused. What the hell does that mean? You weren’t invited, you had a job to... Oh. Oh shit.

“You’re the client?”

His face was answer enough, and you would have slapped yourself for your stupidity if he hadn't had you in an iron grip. A loud game-show ding startles you back into the here and now, he was so much closer than before…

“Sure thing, doll! How else was I supposed to catch a slippery little thing like you without scaring you off?”

He traces his fingers down your cheek, his tips sparking with static electricity. How fucked up are you that this turns you on? Not being able to suppress the need to glance at his still shining and ripped cock again, you swallow hard. Where is your sense of self-preservation? Apparently left outside of this apartment, along with your usual foresight and dignity.

Cables wrap around your thighs and with a yelp you feel yourself getting lifted, legs parted by the wires. You almost topple over but are caught by his hands on your arms and faced with a smirk when you press your back into the wall, stabilizing yourself with a reddened face.

“Those didn’t come with the uniform,” He has the audacity to wink at you, nudging to the black lace panties you wear - excuse a girl for not wearing granny panties in the workplace - and you want to retort something snarky to him, when he looks at you that way. 

Within a moment, you realize two things.

Firstly, with the way he was roaming your body, his eyes lingering not only on your face, but your tits and the flimsy underwear concealing your very obvious wet arousal - you were fucked one way or the other. Which should’ve terrified you. Emphasis on ‘should’.

Because the other thing was, that even though he had bound you, even though you were at the mercy of this powerful sinner who tricked and trapped you here, rendering your power useless with whatever-the-fuck… he didn’t seem malicious, but rather… curious? Fascinated? Playful? You can’t really pinpoint it, but something tells you that - if you play your cards right - you might get more out of this make-pretend job than a jetstream-bathtub and hopefully all your limbs intact. And most importantly - you have nothing to lose.

“They're from my personal collection - lucky coincidence that they match the overall vibe of your staff's... uniform." It takes a lot to steady your voice as you talk, with the way his clawed hands run along the insides of your legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

He cocks his brow, as if he's pleasantly surprised, and licks his lips before he answers, his voice sultry and dripping of sexual tension.

"Mh... Luck favors the prepared, I always say. Oh, and speaking of slippery and prepared, sweetheart..."

You gasp as you feel the soft fabric being pushed aside and long fingers running lightly through your drenched folds. Fuck, you can already tell just how skilled those fingers must be. How great they'd feel deep inside you. Involuntarily, you buck your hips to guide them to where you wanted them most - onto your clit and burrowed to his knuckles - the desperation just dripping from you as he chuckles and lets his thumb glide over the throbbing pearl teasingly teasingly as he pushes one of his digits in. Your head rolls against the wall behind you with a needy moan escaping your lips and you have to bite them to stay focussed for what you were about to do.

"What a sight. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment, doll, seeing you all desperate and fucking..."

The rest of his sentence died in his throat, replaced by a low, long and stuttering moan. Half shocked, half aroused, he looked down to his throbbing cock, then his head snapped up to you, grinning down on him. You moved your hips again, grinding down on his unmoving fingers, frozen in place at his confusion, confirming your suspicion that he didn't know about your other power. Not as strong as your intangibility, sure, but strong enough for him to feel - and see - the ghostly hand you envisioned around his dick, continuing what he started, pumping him in leisurely, slow strokes. 

"Didn't know about that move, doll." His hand comes alive again, and even though his voice glitches a bit he adds another one, much more tenderly and almost softly, properly prepping you. And judging by the circumference of the cock you feel through your spectral hand, it was more than precaution, but nothing less than a mercy. Mercy you were ready to beg for, given his thumb would continue the delicious circles it drew, just the right pressure, just the right pace to push you near the edge without tipping you over it.

"You're just a whole mystery, huh?"

Now fairly certain your head wouldn't roll at the end of this encounter, you let your last reservations slide. It has been too long since you were in the hands of a skilled lover, one that didn't disappoint, that didn't come too soon or drilled amateurishly into you in search for the g-spot they never found. This one knew what he was doing, finally, and by satan you wouldn't waste this opportunity. Make it a night to remember, and who knows? If you fuck his brains out, maybe he'd be knocked out long enough after for you to make a quick and easy exit. You imagined the spectre hand to twist, its thumb mapping the soft ridges around the crown. That seems to do the trick for Vox, and the look he shoots you deeply satisfies. "Fuck me, that's good."

Playing into this sentiment, you didn’t stifle the moans his damn fingers stroke out of you, the way they glide in and out, pressure on all the right marks without fail is too good to hold back. Your skin felt on fire, even without him touching anything but your pussy, and you felt no energy left to care that your clothes - if you would call them that - seemed to fall apart on your body, skirt pushed up to your waist, top loose around your shoulders and almost down enough to let your boobs fall out. You must look a mess, but then again the overlord didn’t seem to mind - quite the contrary. He looked outright hungry, eyes glitching occasionally with a particular squeeze of your hand or a poignant lustful moan from your lips.

“Do you have to concentrate to do that?”

“A little.”

His fingers hitting that one sweet spot inside you, cutting any other, more elaborate explanation short. Fucking hell, that you had to get tricked and trapped by an overlord to find a man that doesn’t think ‘foreplay’ is the interview before a soccer game was a fucking travesty. Grateful for that fact you withdraw from your own pleasure and decided to reward him, regaining your concentration enough to imagine a second hand to pay attention to the firm, very plump balls of his, rolling them in its palm and giving them a gentle, tentative squeeze.

“Cool party trick though, isn’t it?”

As if you challenged him, there’s a subtle change in his demeanor - his eyes more inquisitive, his fingers more eager and fervent, and a third one joined the others, stretching you oh-so-deliciously. For a moment you think you’d lose control, the ghost hands flickering before you got a grip on them again, determined to not tip the scales so soon. But you had to admit - it was tempting, to give into this implied command: Submit, let me take care of you, let me fuck you dumb.  

Little did he know, you were all about equality - or nothing at all. And if he was allowed to plow you with three fingers, surely he couldn’t protest against a third hand.

You weren’t sure how you’d manage it… the power was new, still waiting to be mastered, but you willed a third hand into reality, joining the one on his balls, softly working their way down and massaging his perineum. It strained you to no end, operating the conjured hands while Vox was adamant to make you cum on his fingers alone, but with how the cables shook and loosened around you, you were fairly certain it was enough to show him you meant business, your message clear: If anything, baby, we will fuck each other dumb. 

You watch with almost painful arousal how his screen flashes from the three-way-stimulation, his teeth slightly baring from the sensation but without losing his cocky smirk, as if to show his resilience.

"You'd be the life of any party I know, sugar, if you can pull shit like this out your sleeve."

With a wince from you, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you gaping, empty and fucking whining at the loss, eyes sharp and with a dangerous glint in them. "But you're not the only one with a few secret talents."

He kneels down then, opens his mouth, and you can't believe your eyes as a thick, long, very analog blue tongue unfolds and licks his lips hungrily and almost impatiently. A hand around each thigh spreading you almost impossibly wide, the hot breath feels chilling against your slick opening, and a brush of the tip of his tongue on your swollen clit makes your toes curl and your muscles tense with expectation. Your gaze, locked with his, breaks only when your head throws back and you moan out his name as he truly begins to eat you out. 

No teasing or games, no building up the tension - it's unmerciful, frenetic, his tongue alternately flickering on your clit with its pointed tip and pushing deep into your core with an almost unbearable thickness until there was no space left to be filled, tasting every little centimeter inside. Instinctively, your real hands twitch in their restraints, wanting to reach out, grab his head, the frame of his screen, fucking anything really just to have something of him to hold onto and push. Your hips can't hold still, but he made sure not to lose an inch as his hands gripped your ass down and into him as if he heard your thoughts, drawing you deeper into his maw as he devours you. Your spirit hands fade in and out, your mind unable to keep them steadily corporeal - he was too good, his tongue was too good, not once did his rhythm falter nor the damn thing slow down, giving you no chance to collect yourself.

Finally - oh god finally - his cables loosened enough for you to dart your hands towards him, finding a saving anchor on his arms. You literally felt like you were drowning - wet and out of breath, senses fogged by that wonderfully violent tongue swiping and licking and prodding and fucking pulsing. When he hummed into your cunt, all dams broke, and you could only stutter “fuck, cumming - oh my God-” before you snapped and you fell into the depths of your orgasm.

Whatever prick, mouth or fingers you had on and in you before - this erased them all. Never before felt your head so light, your cunt so heavy and hell so divine.

His relentless licks make you mewl with every stroke as he rides you through your high, but he just doesn’t stop. Greedy, rawing your abused cunt to a point where moans turn into almost pained whimpers and your body twitches and squirms, begging for him to relent.

Mercifully he understands, and when he stands up, you only passingly realize with a pang of bad conscience that your spectre limbs have dissipated somewhere along the line, leaving him high and dry - only metaphorically, because his cock was soaked in leaking cum.

He hooks your legs over his arm, his other snaking around your waist to lift you from the wall, and you made no motion to resist it, being that the prospect of his soft sheets on his bed were much more preferable than color-coated concrete on your back. The short walk over feels like the eye of the storm - a short illusion of a safe space, and you use it to assess the damage.

For one - the ‘clothes’ you wore were useless now, they did nothing clothes were supposed to do - The sleeves were half-ripped from the bralette, hanging by a thread, and the top itself so far down your tits were fully out, nipples dark and flushed, while the skirt was nothing more than a drape at this point, hiding the mess on your thighs and reddened, puffed lips.

Then you look up through your lashes, up to the best lay you ever had, down below as well as up above. You should plan your escape, should use the time you had now to calculate what to do to get the fuck out while you could - Instead your horny little fucked-up brain was busy imagining how you could draw this out, make him so pussydrunk he’d send another decoy job weekly, just so you could return to that magic tongue again and again.

You were right. The sheets felt soft and obscenely expensive. You spread your fingers, the only real motion you were still able to make for now, taking his roaming gaze and the appreciative expression on his screen as a badge of honor. Your senses tingled, and you blinked one, two times, listening into your powers. The walls of his apartment were prepped by him to prevent you from leaving - electricity most likely, something intangible itself - but the ceiling and floors weren’t.

“Got another round in you, baby?”

You look up to him as he wraps your legs around his waist,lining himself up to you, tip ready and loaded. But he doesn’t push in. He waits, and you could cry as he does so.

Fucking hell, the ruthless media overlord half of hell fears to the point they piss themselves is waiting for your consent.

It’s this unexpected, contradictory duality that draws your lips into a smile. Trapping you in his territory, able to kill you with his goddamn pinkie, and yet the only thing he does is make you cum on his mouth and wait for a ‘yes’ to fuck you mindless - how could you not fall for that? Even more, how could you not test your luck with that?

With regained strength you reach for his dick, fingers wrapping firmly around his girthy base. His body follows your gentle guidance, and he lets himself glide into your ready heat with a groan that sends a shiver down your spine - such an earnest sound it makes you want to return the favor tenfold. And you just knew the way you could.

“You don’t need to worry about my stamina,” Voice like honey, you refocus your mind, visualizing the wicked idea that had entered your mind.

A soft hand. Long, flexible fingers, slick and smooth and ready. It formed as you thought it, stroking the cleft of his ass, halting at the tight ring of muscle it found, testing his reaction with a teasing, light press against his opening.

The reaction was priceless. Face glitching, hips jerking violently forward into you as its fingers pass his entrance and slide into him, coming to a halt at that one, very sensitive spot. His breath is ragged and eyes fucking wild, but the way he bends down, gripping your hands to entangle them with yours and pressing as much midnight-blue skin against yours tells you that he doesn’t exactly hate it.

“Worry about your own,” you whisper against the skin of his chest, grinning at the way he shudders at the sultry tone of your voice and the challenging eyes of yours, hilted in your pussy still, taking the ghostly fingers like a good boy.

“Whatever you did to your apartment, you only did it to the walls - the floor is fair game - ah fuck-”

He found some of his senses back, his thrust surprising your nerves with a sudden jolt of electricity - added by him or imagined by you, you can’t tell. He fills you so perfectly, as if molded just for you, big and hard and absolutely sublime, and when he brings his knees up more and bends you at the waist he manages to push in even deeper, pounding almost at your cervix with increasingly feverish, tough thrusts. Again, he wanted to break your concentration, but this time, you were prepared. You let your body do what you trained it to do - it goes hazy, misty, almost translucent in a blue-ish hue, revealing the vision of his buried prick deep inside you, teal glow in navy mist, before you solidify again and find the strength to grin up at him.

“If you cum before I do, I’m out of here.”

There was a wicked glint on that screen of his, and he upped the pace of his snapping hips, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

"Guess you'll have to move in then, baby." His voice sounds almost distorted, his body starts to spark with fizzing bolts of electric energy, and when he grips the headboard with one hand to gain more momentum to fuck even faster and stronger into you, you almost want to take him up on that quip, convinced his apartment was equipped with more than just a boring jetstream hot tub.

Your spirit fingers stroke in a come-hither motion over his prostate, over and over, varying in pressure, intensity and speed, and each swipe makes him moan a little louder, driving his dick a little deeper into you. It's becoming a race towards a finish line none of you wanted to get to in the first place, a fight of wills and bodies, pushing you to your limits judging by the way your oversensitive pussy clenches, begging for release once more. But by Satan himself you did not intend to lose without a good fight, your fingers raking over his lithe back and the sharp edges of his body, lingering, scraping, writing wordless praises into his skin in red streaks.

“In fact, sweetheart,” he says as he pounds you and your pants become out even louder, “I’ll make you cum so hard you don’t want to leave - you’ll scream my name so loud they’ll hear you down in Wrath, know exactly where you’ll be living from now on.”

Vox, too, is close, you can see it, hear it, most importantly feel it. One hand remaining on the headboard, the other scoops you up by your neck, pulling you onto his face in a kiss so breathtaking and fierce you almost pass out. It's sloppy and lustful, it's lips against lips and tongue on tongue, and your ability to use either becomes redundant when you and him both simultaneously cry out, orgasms overlap and intertwine, you cunt clenching tightly around his pulsating length, sending spurt after spurt of hot cum into you as your own release drips onto the soaked sheets below. Your eyes roll back, the fingers buried inside his tightened ass vanish and your muscles relax. With his hand still on your neck, claws digging into your skin, he slowly brings you back onto the mattress to let you fall together with him.

Silence settles for a second. A brief moment of stillness and clarity, sweat cooling your skin, hearts slowing down and breathing returning to normalcy. You feel the aftermath of his touches everywhere. His marks litter you from top to bottom: Your wrists and thighs are covered in red streaks from the tightness of his cable bondage. Your whole skin tingles from the waves of his inherent electric current. But most telling of all was the pooling mess inside of you, already leaking.

You let yourself feel the weight of his body on yours - it's an intoxicating feeling, the heat radiating off his dark blue skin, and the subtle charge beneath, a hidden hum underneath your fingertips, telling of the immense power of an Overlord you just let fuck you senseless. Now would be the time to run - his screen was completely blue, turned off while he recovered his breath - if you wanted, you could disappear, and he wouldn't be able to stop you or track you down. But when you searched the depths of your mind and body for regret and the sense of danger it brought - there was none. Only satiated warmth, an afterglow you could bathe in, like a warm, healing balm, easing your aching bones and bruised skin.

And just in that moment of resolve, Vox’s screen returned to show his face, and he lifted his head slightly to look at you with eyes as bright and vivid as the neon signs lighting up the streets of the entertainment district outside his windows.

One Month Later

“Thanks babes, I was about to lose my shit when Velma and Kelly fucking quit on me. Bunch of pussies, those two, seriously.”

You shoot Velvette a smile over your shoulder, adjusting the last couple of details on six of her girls, ghostly blue hands hovering around them - clipping a collar here, buckling a shoe there. You pity the two foolish girls - the runway show had Velvette occupied tonight, but tomorrow - well, you were sure Vel was about to annihilate their sorry stylist asses for blowing her off last minute… and not just with a snarky post on Sinstagram.

“No problem, Vel, that’s what I’m here for.”

The small woman laughs sarcastically, but not in the usual mean way, but a playful one, a friendly one. That was one of the things you could pride yourself on - That Velvette, social media queen and judge of what’s hot and not, fell in love with you almost as fast and hard as Vox did.

“Darling, we both know that no one really knows what exactly Vox hired you for. What was the job description he pulled out of his flat ass again?” she raises a cocky brow, sipping obnoxiously on her iced coffee to go in her hands, holding out another, identical one for you. “Ah, yes, ‘ASS’.”

You take the drink from her, smiling mischievously back at her. When Vox came up with that title, he didn’t even notice the ambiguity of its abbreviation, and you let him stew over it for almost a day before you told him, silently convinced your fingers left a memorable impression. “It’s ‘Administrative Services Specialist', and what can I say? My resumee was very convincing.”

Velvette snorts into her vanilla foam. “Funny name for your cunt love, but you do you. Now shoo. Didn’t you and flatface have a date tonight?”

You wave her a quick goodbye, sipping up the cold drink in one gulp and throwing it into the trash as you bypass it, hurrying down the hall and plucking the private keycard from your back pocket. You scan it at the elevators, noticing the other employees backing away from you, and you couldn’t hide the grin that flashed your face. No one dared to ride in that elevator with you, a very badly kept secret that it sent you one way straight to Vox’s apartment, and every one of them would rather chew glass than be caught by whatever awaited the opening elevator doors.

And Vel was right - you had a date with Vox, a special one at that.

Barely three weeks ago you actually did move in - call it a whim of insanity, call it fate - and since that, your days were filled with a job in the Vee Tower that you actually liked (no one shed a tear at the ‘Dusty Pages’ closure notice) and the nights were spent naked, sweaty and blissfully explicit under, on top and any other possible way with Vox in his bed. You learned something new about yourself - with the right partner, you were almost insatiable. Another thing you learned was that Vox seemed to feel just the same. Lucky coincidences indeed.

But date night was something special. Giving up the alibi bookshop was easy enough - but you were adamant that you still wanted to do your other jobs.

Not because of the money - Vox provided generously, and wouldn’t take a cent from you (although you managed to convince him to let you buy him at least snacks and small gifts, an exception you abused to the absolute limit). No, you actually liked to sneak through the night, liked the thrill of moving in the shadows and shifting through secured buildings. Liked the excited arousal you felt after a completed heist.

To preserve your secret, you and Vox decided that you wouldn’t reveal your main power to the others at Vee Tower, the only other people who knew were Velvette and Valentino.

The latter wasn’t your biggest fan, and who could blame him, giving that you were living with  and fucking his ex-lover, but he had his own flings and things to take care of, and after a few occasions where you stepped in to help him out at shoots and with his scripts, he at least became cordial towards you.

But date night was where you went out to do a job, secured through Vox for one of his many business partners, and the pool of people the TV demon had on hands that needed or wanted something of value was a bottomless pit from which you could choose the ones you liked the best. And your digital lover not only organized your gigs - he became your eyes and ears, your literal partner in crime.

The doors open, and Vox stands waiting, leaning, in the doorway, arms crossed and a grin on his face.

“You’re late, doll.”

“I know I know, but Vel needed some helping hands - you know I can’t leave her hanging.”

“Oh, I saw.”, he chuckles, his screen switching from his face to images of you from the security cameras on Velvettes floor, close ups of your face, your tits and ass sprinkled in between. ”You know I can never see enough of you, gotta keep those cameras on.”

You scoffed, but did so with a smile before you kissed him and ran off into the closet, undressing quickly while he followed you, letting himself fall down on his bed and watching you intensely as you peeled your clothes from your body and slipped into your signature skintight suit. By the time you were changed his cock was hard, straining his pants which you acknowledged with an appreciative smile.

You both exchange longing looks, but time is ticking. You put the newest addition to your equipment in your ear - a tiny, wireless headset, directly connected to Vox, bend over the bed, your tongue running over the warm line of his lower lip and sigh as he groans with want.

“I know it’s usually payment upfront, baby, but we’re already behind schedule.”

You can’t seem to tear yourself from him with those big hands on your ass squeezing tightly and that goddamn tongue in your mouth, your mind half decided to tell your client to fuck off and fuck the demon in front of you senseless. But he gently pulls away, his eyes burning not only with need, but also with pride. A look you loved to see on him.

“And besides, you are so much more voracious after a job well done.”

He slaps your ass as you pass him, and you shift through the wall, now almost as eager to steal that stupid looking red duck from some dingy, rundown hotel as you were to return to his waiting cock to cash in your salary.

[a-writer-on-elm-street]

Hi dear,

I was wondering if you could write for creepy neighbor! Michael x fem! reader, where he finds her on social media and downloads her pics to jerk off to then gradually 2 months later he storms into her house at night and fucks her into the mattress, love your blog <3

a/n: i absolutely can write that! thank you so much for the request and i hope you like it <3

pairing: creepy neighbour!michael x fem!reader

warnings: stalking, home intrusion, unprotected sex, rough sex

word count: 1005

You were beautiful, that much Michael knew. Even as you were staggering up the front steps to your door, your coordination severely lacking, he thought you were the most beautiful person he'd seen in a while.

Something about you always made his cock twitch in his pants, a sensation he had long since forgotten, it had been so long.

He'd first noticed you a few months ago, stumbling up the front steps to your new house, with a heavy box in your arms. No one ever came near his house, so he was surprised to find that you had been the one to finally move in next door.

He thought he had finally gone mad, that the long stretches of silence he usually endured had finally corrupted his mind, destroyed his sanity.

But with each month that passed, it became apparent to him that you were in fact real, and you were living right next door.

As he watched you jam your keys into the door, he quickly unbuttoned his coveralls, wrapping his hand around his aching cock.

But unfortunately, your brief presence outside your door wasn't enough to satisfy him, so he found himself reaching for the phone he'd stolen, quickly bringing up the images he'd taken from your social media.

He found that he rather enjoyed the idea of being able to watch somebody by simply tapping a few buttons on a screen. It certainly saved him the energy of having to sneak around outside all the time. Now, he could just watch you from inside the walls of his own home.

He pulled up an image of you in a bikini, the sun warming your skin and your chest glistening. He imagined his hands on you, rough fingers slipping beneath the straps, pulling the material over your head.

He imagined your breasts. He imagined his hands, wandering over your body, dipping inside your panties, driving his cock into you...

He wanted to hear you scream. He wanted to feel your skin beneath his hands, his cock buried deep inside your pussy.

Once he came to the realisation that a simple image wouldn't be enough to satisfy him, he put the phone down, tucking his cock back into his pants and walking towards the door.

You were home alone tonight, he knew that, which meant he was free to pay you a visit, satiate his need for you.

He silently left his house, walking straight up the steps to your house, and he opened the door with ease, noting that you rarely remembered to lock your doors at night.

Luckily for you, Michael had no intention to actually harm you tonight. He only intended to finally live out his fantasy, to feel your skin against his as he fucked you.

You were halfway up the stairs when you suddenly heard something behind you, strong hands roughly gripping your hair, forcing you forwards.

"What the fuck?!" You screamed, struggling in his hold as he continued to shove you forwards, barely even flinching as you thrashed around. "Let me go!"

It only took mere minutes to reach your bedroom, and he released his hold on your hair, forcefully throwing you into your mattress. And that was when you saw his face, the signature white halloween mask that belonged to none other than Michael Myers.

You thought he was dead. Everyone did. Yet here he was, standing over you as you laid there helpless.

"Michael?" You breathed out, staring up at him in shock. "Is that really you?"

He offered you no response, simply standing there motionless, his muffled breathing filling the silence.

"Michael─"

Before you were able to say anything else, he was closing in on you, his hands quickly finding the waistband of your shorts, effortlessly tugging the material from your body.

You probably should've struggled, attempted to fight him off in some way, but you could only lay there as he pushed your shirt up your body, revealing your tits to him.

You weren't sure what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. You also hadn't expected to be so turned on by it.

You gasped when you felt his hands on your tits, the heat growing between your legs becoming uncomfortable.

"Michael," you whined. "Please, fuck me."

That was all the encouragement he needed to finally take his cock out, wasting no time in pushing into you, a muffled groan falling from his lips when he heard you cry out.

His hands were still roughly gripping your tits as he thrusted into you at a bruising pace, revelling in the sounds that he was pulling from your throat, and the near violent slapping of skin that filled the small bedroom.

You let out something short of a scream as he fucked you into the bed, the pressure building in your stomach becoming almost too much to bear.

"Oh, fuck! Shit!" You hissed, desperately clawing at the bed sheets.

Michael didn't let up, curling his hands around your waist as he continued to thrust into you relentlessly.

He loved the way you were squirming beneath him, trying to get away, to relieve yourself of the pressure.

And it wasn't long until you felt the sting of tears in your eyes, your body aching as he continued to pound into you.

"Michael," you breathed. "Oh God!"

The fire that had been building inside you finally exploded, a shock of pleasure coursing through you as you continued to cry out, your vision becoming blurred.

Michael continued to fuck you through your orgasm, your body becoming limp as he slapped up against you. And it only took one last pathetic moan from you for his hips to stutter, pleasure crashing over his own body now as he spilled into you, a muffled groan pushing past his lips.

Once he was finished, he pulled out of you, leaving you to watch as he tucked himself away, quickly doing up his coveralls before turning and walking out of your door.

Michael would definitely be doing this again.

[Main Masterlist]

[the-quiet-youve-been-longing-for]

Okay time for another small (I hope) analysis on IWTV, mainly the way it's written and its place on current television. I'll try my best to format this so it's not ramblings all over, I promise.

IWTV and plot points

I watched a good amount of television in my time, and one thing I noticed here is the fact that it doesn't hold your hand. It doesn't tell you "hey, this thing x is important, now we will tell again why x is important, now here see x being used, the important thing we talked about so far, did you remember, audience?".

Let's take as an example the "don't drink the blood of the living" thing. It's said to a young Louis (telling also to the audience in the 2nd episode how vampirism in this setting works) and then every time it's brought up it's indirectly (Lestat spitting out the sick man's blood, we see Claudia buying Laudanum and we know what it will be used for, but they don't tell us "Hey, Claudia is planning to poison someone so that Lestat drinks it, because remember audience, dead blood kills them"). Sometimes not only it doesn't hold your hand, but shoves you in a different direction, especially in S2. It contradicts himself, backtracks and then it's up to you to spot it.

For example, attentive viewers may have noticed that Sam was in 2 places at once in the trial, one episode before the actual reveal. It isn't a gotcha they came up with in the finale to give more gravitas to the revelation. When they tell us Lestat mass manipulated the audience, it makes sense for the storyline too because we already saw him do that with the soldiers, we have a previous example to refer to, Armand never used that particular power.

In a time where we see so many social media adopt the "short videos" gimmick, like reels and shorts etc, having a piece of media that references back in this way is super refreshing.

2. Character complexity

Complex characters are the backbone of this show. It's easy to place a character in a box and leave them there. You see it with the stereotype of the villain, the best friend, the hero. Some tv shows may have the character shift into a different box, but it's almost never permanent (think of the times where a hero gets corrupted by the Evil Power, but then reverts back to their hero status after Defeating the Evil Power because they remembered the Power of Friendship).

We have Louis, well meaning vampire who is capable of horrible deeds when pushed to the brink. Lestat, who feels so much to the point it hurts the people around him. Armand, whose trauma and fear bring out the need to control, but at the same time he needs to do that without actually controlling. They are all these things at the same time, and it's impossible to see them in a black and white perspective.

3. Details

A line almost always has its parallels to another line in the show, gazes always mean something, props are detailed and shown (I made a post looking at Daniel's notes in 2x05, which were shown for a second only, but you can also think about Claudia's diaries, all handwritten, or the astonishing amount of folders that were in Daniels computer from the Talamasca. That is all prop work done to be shown for a few seconds at most).

4. Analysis

This is more of a fandom thing than the show itself, but I was suprised by the amount of deep analysis that people here on Tumblr did (but also on other social media). Long essays on the meaning of a scene, or on the many many topics the show brings to light (the fallacy of memory, the impact of trauma, the meaning of free will and agency).

Similarly lots of people said that the show brought them back the urge to start creating, whether it's gifs, video essays, edits, fanart, fics, what have you. I started going back to Tumblr after years (last time I was here was during S4 of Sherlock).

And I feel like this is only possible if you give your audience something to work with, something to talk about and to dissect, rather than simple "entertainment".

5. Final thoughts

Of course, this isn't to say IWTV is error free, all perfect, without flaws. Nor is it the only one that has had this amount of labor and impact. But it's still miles ahead from most media we have available at the moment in my opinion, and I really hope its success brings other showrunners or directors to want to try and dare, to trust in their audience, to avoid shortcuts and to pour love in their creation.

If you got this far, I just want to thank you for taking the time to read my ramblings again! Have a cute Louis as a reward, and see you next time :)

[yaoiparker]

CRIMSON SMOKE (one-shot)

Warnings: no smut, male reader, goth!reader, might be occ, can be any Deadpool media, smoking

notes;;

• he calls you 'spooky'

• no use of Y/n

• established relationship

• quite short ig

a/n: tried to do a new style

It's been a month since you and Wade became official. You like the guy, you think he's hilarious! And so far, everything is quite nice. Wade is incredibly sweet in his own way- yeah sure the 3AM texts with memes are annoying but you appreciate the thought.

Tonight you were sitting at your usual hang out place, the local cemetery, you know this looks bad but it's calming and to know that these people had hopes, dreams, a life. It's sad but..somehow it's nice to think about (somewhat cause that's just plain creepy) but of course Wade doesn't get it.

He disturbs your philosophy thinking with smoking time with his voice. "Y'know if I knew sooner that you were into these type of places I would've called you on a date for a movie night, the movie would be ghost busters." He teased as he breaks the silence, his tone was laced with affection and somewhat sarcasm. He strolls up to your signature spot and sits beside you under that tree you really like- you roll your eyes the comment he made.

You look at him to continue the sudden conversation he started. "Well, I guess it's just me that's a bit freaky huh?" Wait that came out wrong. Your expression now expressing that cringed confusion. Wade finds it funny though (someone please take internet slang away from him)

"don't worry, bae" we match each other's freak quite nicely." Somebody stop him. You cringe at that while holding your cigarette between your fingers, Wade chuckles. "You're quite weird Wade." And you respect that. Despite Wades childish, dirty minded, idiotic antics you find comfort in just being with him, talking to him. It was calming more than anything

"never thought I would've seen you right back here again Spooky." He said as he jokingly called you 'spooky' he says it's a replacement for 'pookie'

"of course I am, I thought you liked my whole goth style." You teased a bit before taking a huff on your cigarette, Wade might've just gained another bone right there and there.

He responds with "Oh I do babe, I think that it's funny that you're playing into it. Your practically an old 2010s cartoon goth!" He joked without any ill intend. 'huh, guess I am practically one huh?' you think to yourself. You think of a comeback to his comment.

"well- at least I'm not some edgy ninja oc." You said trying to act cool, not working and plus that comeback was WEAK. Wade laughs at you.

"you gotta try harder then that spooky~!" He teased. He pokes your cheek teasingly as you're embarrassed by it. You push him away, making him land on the floor.

"Ow, but how forward of you!" He said happily. "But in all seriousness babe, I find your goth aesthetic really hot. I've gotta hand it to ya, you really are committed to this goth thingy, I mean it's straight out of a tim Burton dream..but sexier." You raise your eye brow at him

"what?"

"you're hot."

You roll your eyes at him, AGAIN. He's ridiculous, an idiot even. He moves closer to you and puts his arm around you romantically. "This is such a cool concept fic.." he commented against the authors will. You look at him confused, he's always on something.

You pull out your cigarette box and get a cig. "You wanna..?" You asked patiently at Wade. He stares at you for a moment, before tugging a smirk in the corner.

"Trying to corrupt me emo prince?" Ugh you hate it when he calls you that. "Oh the shame, you are promoting smoking..don't do what they do guys." You look at him annoyed and confused.

"you could've just said, no." He chuckles at your comment. You ignore that chuckle and just start smoking a new cig, Wade just admires you, your expression, your makeup, your outfit, basically everything. You leaned your head onto his shoulder a little tired.

"tired, spooky?" He asked teasingly you respond with a 'uh-huh' causing him to smile a bit under that mask. He pulls you into his chest and he starts caressing your head "yeah..that's what happens when you're awake at 3am and go to the graveyard." He sarcastically says and you groan in annoyance and tiredness

"so where do you wanna sleep tonight? My place or your place?" He asked curiously, you just shrug as you rub your eyes.

"what's closer, I guess.." you respond.

"So my place then?" He said with a smug smirk under his stupid mask. He pulls away your cigarette, and just kisses your forehead under the mask.